Seriously laate post, but it's been super crazy round here the last few hours. Everyone else was planning to go out and I didn't really feel like it, so I just went down to drink wine with them while everyone else was getting pissed, which was mostly fine. Only then everyone left and Aman was bent over the sink in the bathroom going I CAN'T MOVE and we were like ohh...shit. He's currently passed out on the sofa with a bucket to throw up in, and Rebecca has promised to clean up in the morning so I think imma just go to bed because I am REALLY BAD at looking after sick people. And also he is actually passed out so there isn't really much I can do right now.
So I should really do some research. I got really into Never Let Me Go today - I've finished the first two sections, and I think I read for at least three hours solid this afternoon because I definitely looked at the clock and went HOLY SHIT IT'S 5PM? - and then I looked it up online and discovered the film isn't actually coming out in the UK until fucking JANUARY. Even though it just opened the London Film Festival. I mean, seriously, what the hell is that? On the other hand, it feels great to be enjoying reading again. I know this sounds ridiculous coming from someone who's studying for an English degree, but I really don't read enough. I can't remember reading for pleasure like this since I rediscovered how much I love Neil Gaiman, which was all the way back in April.
I also started reading the Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath books I bought, last night, and then I remembered that I also own a copy
of Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes and thought it might be interesting to read that alongside the Plath. Um...turns out 'interesting' isn't really the word. It's more like heartbreaking. I found myself reading poetry in tears at about 1am, which I'm pretty sure has never happened to me before. It's like...on the one hand, you have a man falling in love, but also writing retrospectively, writing about the process in of falling in love in the knowledge of his wife's death; and on the other, there's a woman talking about a man who won't be satisfied until he's destroyed every part of her. I think it was comparing Hughes' 'Visit' with Plath's 'Pursuit' that really got me (I can't find 'Visit' online, but 'Pursuit' is here
if anyone cares). Wow, I'm sorry, I totally didn't intend for this to turn into a post about poetry. To be honest, it's unusual for me to enjoy poetry this much; I've read less prose fiction since I came to university, but I don't think I ever really read poetry for pleasure. I guess I've just finally found the kind I actually enjoy.