12 June

Sartre depresses me greatly. I don't think that I like his writing style... or perhaps I do not like the translation. I would be much more interested in Le Nausee than in finishing Nausea. I shall finish it, however, because I lack about eight pages.

Next is The American by Henry James... I need to get these James books back to my attractively-literate boyfriend. I plan to start this one on the car ride to Samford tomorrow for freshman Orientation. (Woop!) I took a James break to read East of Eden (Steinbeck), Identity (Milan Kundera) and Nausea. Milan Kundera makes me more nauseous than Sartre, and for very different reasons: Sartre is philosophically depressing, but Milan Kundera makes one want to think very strongly and then take on the vestments of a nun.

I think that the fundamental and irreconcilable difference between my father and me is that he thinks that he is living out a Steinbeck novel, and I think I am living a Fitzgerald one.

I can't seem to write any poetry. Reading really erudite authors always stunts me. I have a plethora of Post-It notes with maxims to integrate into future poems pasted on my desk, but my writing life is getting flaccid. (What an awful word that is! Flaccid! I hate it! But how perfectly it fits its meaning!)

My poetry grows flabby, but I am growing very good at making cakes. This is a stellar way for the rest of one to grow flabby as well.