Guess who?

It's been a while since I've posted anything substantial (excluding my Halloween bit) on my blog. The reason why, is a lack of time and slow fleeting bursts of inspiration. I can either let my City fall into the tragic spiral of forgetfullness or just bite the bullet and once again share my rambunctious ramblings with the world. Clearly, I chose the latter and while I sit here (behind my dumpling's laptop while he is out there creating tantalizing tunes) there is only one thought one my mind. Namely, how for the love of all things sacred can one make any sense of Ulysses without Spark Notes? Probably not what you were expecting, am I right?

Almost two months ago I embarked on the already tedious affair that I like to call my Master's degree in English Literature. Finally I got to chose my own courses which also sounded fun, in theory. On the other hand, the hours are minimal yet the work load is driven to an unprecedented high. Since I've started, I've been reading at a speed of almost 1000 pages a week. Don't get me wrong, I love to read otherwise English Lit would have been a slightly masochistic choice but come on! Over the past few weeks I have been annoyed by Proust's passive whining, unimpressed by DeLillo's Magnum Opus, fascinated by Kafka's dark and mesmerizing mind (it wasn't all bad, ok), bored by Doctorow's historical hickup, indifferent towards Camus' indifference, aggrivated by basically all things Russian (don't even get me started), gobsmacked by Boem Paukeslag, entertained by Vonnegut and then there was a novel by Gadda that I just skipped altogether. I'm probably leaving a few out but forgive me due to temporary overload. Basically, we have to read one book a week for each class combined with some articles, essays, whatever dribbled out of the pen of people who have to much time to read, think and supposedly "write". I'm not big on criticism if you hadn't noticed already.

All that reading has gotten me sidetracked from the main attraction, namely my thesis. In an earlier post I said I was probably going to do it about Dorothy Parker but alas she lucked out. She wouldn't have been offended but knowing her she'd have obliterated me with a poem like any dignified lady would. This year I'll be focussing on Blonde, not just any blonde but one in particular: Marilyn Monroe. A few years back Joyce Carol Oates, a celebrated American author and one of my personal favorites, wrote a novel that got her another nod at the National Book Awards and Pulitzer Prize, namely Blonde. This 939 page masterpiece (hey, I don't do easy ok) is a fictional biography of Marilyn Monroe. The main character is based on Monroe's life and Oates has also added her own personal touch to the mix. My job, by reading an endless amount of biographies and historical accounts, is to see what's real and what's fiction and what Oates' fictional elements add to Monroe's life in contrast to actual biographies. Basically why fiction if you've got facts? So the next few months I'll be delving into every aspect of 1950ies America from Hollywood to politics with Marilyn, naturally, inbetween.
Now you know where I've been hiding. What's your excuse?