Yes, I do seriously propose to bore you stupid with a Goya copy every few days. This will go on till either I've done all of Los Caprichos or I get bored and start something else to leave unfinished instead. I'm good at that.
No, there probably won't be much in the way of Massey goss – except for the odd whinge about not being able to organise a simple fucking meeting with my goddamn supervisors (he says through gritted teeth).
I've started in on Proust's In search of lost time. (Why do I capitalise Caprichos but not lost time? Should I change Caprichos to caprichos? Yes, I should. But then I'd have to also change it in that other post from a few days ago, and fuck that. So I won't.) I'm enjoying it almost as much as the Goya.
I've found it very conducive to day-dreaming. You read a bit, then you lie back on the couch (or the sun lounger or what-have-you) and think about it, then you float off on a chain of associations (and mixed metaphors). I normally read books far too quickly, but this I'm enjoying slowly. It's great. I love the attention to detail, the three-quarters of a page given to the colour and shape of the lime blossom twigs with which he's making his aunt's tea.
Apparently, one of the many publishers to reject it wrote back saying 'I don't see why a man should take 30 pages to describe how he turns over in his bed before he goes to sleep.'
Rose and I are off to Melbourne later this week to see the Moreau show.
Rock and fucking roll!