This is going to be a rambling, pointless post because I’m feeling rather like Danielle is today, without the headache (although that may be on the way). I spent all afternoon in an intense meeting on testing procedures to place students into the proper English class, which was, as you can imagine, not so incredibly thrilling. I like my job, except for all the meetings. (Isn’t that true for tons of people? How many of you agree with me?)
I do, however, have the pleasure of picking up Penelope Lively’s novel Moon Tiger this evening. I began it last night and after only a few pages I could tell it’s something I will like. It’s got an older narrator, a woman in a hospital with cancer, who is looking back at her life. She’s an historian, and so she’s thinking about her life as history and about history itself; it sort of flows through her head and out onto the page in a random, rambling way. But themes are emerging, especially having to do with archeological metaphors and rock strata — the idea of digging through the layers of history, one’s own history and world history.
I’m determined to finish Waverley this weekend; one good push should do it, as I have fewer than 50 pages left. Believe it or not, I’m not entirely opposed to reading another Scott novel at some point in my life. I guess you could call me hopelessly optimistic, but I just might like Ivanhoe or some of the other ones. I’d kind of like to find out.
I’m working my way slowly through Dale Spender’s Mothers of the Novel and am finding it fascinating; look for a post on Aphra Behn and/or Delariviere Manly and/or Eliza Haywood sometime soon. These are the “fair triumvirate of wits,” three writers often mocked by other, mostly male, writers of the day for their hugely popular, often scandalous writing. They all seem to be very prolific, energetic, courageous writers determined to make their living from writing in a time when it was very hard for a woman to do so.
Okay, off to the books!