Being There

Ah, yes: Another Bloody Cat Picture. (I can hear all of you asking God plaintively why he has forsaken you.) Jenny looks gnomic in this one, as cats are wont to do whenever there isn't a camera handy. Picture's a little old, alas, as the space on which Jenny's resting is completely filled with books, thanks to a trip last week to see RK. Some neat acquisitions, those: some Heidegger, de Man, Frye; quite a few anthologies and essay-collections; some new-to-me editions of Donne and Herbert and Wordsworth; and a small tonne of stuff on Shakespeare and Renaissance poetry & poetics. Came to sixty or seventy volumes in total, but-- as ever-- there's no room for them all. Argh. Skimming through some of those books, I finally remembered why I didn't do Renaissance as a specialization all those years ago: my lack of Latin and my French which, by then, had already gone from rusty to corroded. *shrug* At least I avoided ever having to pay lip-service to that atrocious phrase "early modern." *shiver*

In picking out those books, RK dared me to get through a hundred pages of Heidegger's Being and Time. He hasn't double-dog-dared me yet, but I'll not shrink from a dare. Feel free to set up your pools to place your bets on whether or not I can do it without putting a staple-gun to my head.