ARGH. i know i should take more of an interest in american literature about which i know nothing but i just don't seem remotely interested in this stuff. do i care about the sermons of john winthrop? do i want to read mary rowlandson's narrative of captivity and restoration? j hector st john de crevecoeur's letters from an american farmer? i can't help it i'm not terribly interested in what it means to be an american, or even (shock horror) the letters of thomas jefferson, whatever school i may be in!!! (although, i'll admit, i want to go see natural bridge, but i wanted to do that before i read jefferson's description.

now i have to go meet cheemun's bus. and i'm bloody tired. i can't say why. i slept for two days after returning from new york but i still seem to be inordinately tired. aging, i suppose. bob reeder very consolingly told me yesterday that i am still young and the world's my oyster but people who grow up on thurber have little faith in oysters. as i was leaving the house terence poon said to me "bon courage" which struck me as especially appropriate in a doomed sense. oh well.