I found myself stuck on a bridge for nearly half an hour this afternoon. Rear engine of the London to Paddington train died just after we left Saltash, leaving us on the I.K. Brunel. I carried on with my annotation of 'The Ladies' Paradise' (painfully slow - like the train - but I would rather do that than suffer James Joyce's 'Ulysses').
I put in about 8 hours all told; I also annotated 'The Waste Land' and can see how it's fragmentary style and numerous narrative voices (in French, German and Hindi, I ask you) are going to drive me up the wall. Alongside 'The Waste Land', I have considered writing about Eliot's 'Prufrock' and Ezra Pound's 'Metro'- am avoiding Pound's 'Mauberley' as like 'Ulysses, it is excruciating (Vogon poetry, anyone?).
Lecture today made me irritated - how a 'Dandy' is heralded as a true individual, but a 'Woman' is objectified as nothing more than a 'living frock'. Quote 'dazzling and stupid'. I know - product of it's time etc. Not for the first time do I find the theorists and the modernists as being a misogynistic bunch of twats. F.T. Marinetti et al. His 'scorn of women' matches my derision of pricks who drive too fast - the Futurist Manifesto can go suck itself. Or something close to that description.
The reason for my mood is that the train ran 40 minutes late coming back. Walled in with fellow commuters with their farts, crisps and bad perfume AND (critically) who won't shut the duck up. Or something like that (I don't habitually use bad language in public, but I have had a day of it).
Crabby Claws is now leaving the building - or, let's face it, sleeping. Only to do it all again tomorrow.