'O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’ He chortled in his joy.

Here I am again: sitting here, typing out an entry, rambling off what I should be reading, finished reading, and planning to read for school this week--ought to, and still am reading Anatomy of Criticism, with Buried Child, and Death and the Maiden soon to be read, "as always," my fiancée chortled repeatedly this weekend. Plus I have two final assignments I'll be starting soon--a ten to twelve page well-researched paper on Beckett's Waiting For Godot, which, yes, I confess to never having read before this year, and as I previously stated an anthropology paper on magic, aliens, paranoia and all that psychological jazz. Eventually, I'll have a third paper of my own devising to write on Northrop Frye--more than likely something to complement my reading of Lovecraft, perhaps using Frye's books to interpret the under-appreciated Clark Ashton Smith poem "The Hashish-Eater or the Apocalypse of Evil" published at the same time as Eliot's "The Waste Land."

For now I have Frye's tomb, Anatomy of Criticism to get through--yes, chortle, you know who you are--which was neglected aside from a few minutes during break at work today as I spent most of the day working--8 3/4 hours, and evening eating again, and night-time writing a reflection on Matthew Arnold's poem "The Buried Life" (available here).