Suffering For My Art

I am moving along nicely on the "Had she been beautiful" thing. Still, early days yet. I guess I'm twenty pages into it and half of it is backstory, the dreaded Expository Lump.

I watched "The Age of Innocence" the other day, on VHS from the library. Oh, how I wish I'd seen this at the movies. And a couple of years later, I really don't get the big deal over Daniel Day Lewis's and Michelle Pfeiffer's performances. The real stars of the show were the art director and set decorator. I think I need to re-read the book.

But nothing on earth can entice me to re-read "The House of Mirth". It was one of the first books-on-tape I listened to and the impact it had on me was stunning. It threw me into a depression that it took me years to climb out of. Actually, Edith threw me down the hole and a variety of natives from the Indian sub-continent kept chucking other things down on top of me while I was there.

So. I did order it from Netflix. It's here. It's sitting on the bookcase next to the TV. Can you hear it? Ticktickticktick.

Knowing that there would likely be emotional repercussions from 'House of Mirth', the next on my Netflix list is 'Harry and Kumar Go to the White Castle'. It should be here tomorrow.

Do I dare watch the movie without emotional backup?

Hm. I think I should go for it. If it gets too bad, I can always throw 'Dave' in the DVD. That always cheers me up.