Let me define mistake for you: Reading T.S. Eliot’s poetry on a Saturday and following that up with Between the Acts by Virginia Woolf on Sunday.
Yeah, for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to consume the heavy hitters in Modernist Literature in one weekend. The writers who question over and over again if here is there, if now is not now, if love is a physical state or a vapour that surrounds us.
My answer to all these questions: I don’t freaking know, dude.
I never really get poetry, most times, so it really was a surprise for me that Eliot really affected my mind space. He made me think about the permanence and impermanence of feeling, of living, of existing. Virginia Woolf made me think about my connection to the social parameters of the universe, even though I am quite a Hermitic individual, and I didn’t even like Between the Acts. If we’re being totally honest.
Anyway that’s all I wanted to say. Reading these freaking books has thrown me into the karmic fire all over again.
Stupid Modernists.
Until next time x
Shell Spotted 