the wine

I finished it. No, not 100 Years. The Grapes of Wrath. I am sorry my affair had to happen, but now it's over.

My god, what a book! I don't know what it is about Steinbeck, but he grabs me and won't let me go. When I'd finished, I felt much like I did when I finished reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. I've never seen poverty like that with my own eyes, and I wonder who I will be when I do. People can only be ground so low before they snap. But then what happens if the snap happens amidst so much personal tragedy? Why can a rich person look at a poor person and, by their actions, say that it is enough to just keep body and soul together? Why is that allowed? Why do we allow it in ourselves and our families and our peers? In our government? In our businesses?

I think I'm not really as interested in literary criticism as I have thought. It's stories that interest me, and then only because they illuminate humanity.

fuck the wind

In honour of Anne's somewhat tardy agreement-in-principle to join this club, I choose to justify our blog address.

See... I enjoy what we'll loosely call literary criticism, but I am the last person to say that it is one of the most urgent activities of our time. It is somewhat futile since it is the activity itself, and not the product of the activity, that is most beneficial. It isn't entirely satisfying, since you turn in circles, and think cool thoughts, but you haven't really done anything. sort of like fucking the wind...

Also, I like the legend of the mustangs - that a mare was impregnated by the wind.

Also because I live in a fucking windy place.

Also because people are full of hot air.

Also because I like naughty words.