I've almost finished Three Guineas, Woolf's answer to the question, "How shall we prevent war?" It is occasionally dense, but surprises you with moments of purely beautiful prose. I think I made the right choice for my honors thesis. And I am about 260 pages in to Within a Budding Grove. I think of Francine Prose (aka, the woman I'd like to become one day) whenever I read Proust, and how admirably pretentious it was of her to read the entire À la recherche du temps perdu in French.
I got to talk to Guion, fresh in from NYC, last night on Skype. Big bonus to the week.
I should start walking now, but I just wanted to say, briefly, that I am pleased to have fallen into this daily rhythm, while set on edge at the thought that it shall soon be disrupted when I arrive in Denver and must create a new one. I am, perhaps above all else, a creature of habit. I like routines and plain food; I am boring at the heart? Or maybe only too easily satisfied?