It has been a while since I have had time to seriously compose anything, or think about anything but the future and the gritty details of academic advancement. Summer was long and slow without the solace of particular enjoyment and now I feel the knots and bindings of responsibility and ohwhatfuneverythingis. I would imagine this to be true of everyone, but there are rare moments in which you rediscover a part of yourself, in my case a written remnant, and through the tiredness and unbearable solidity of things comes a moment of calm. I present with what presence I can muster, a single sentence from a close reading I wrote on a passage in George Eliot's Daniel Deronda on the subject of Gwendolen:
The collective "we" is formed due to relative proximity, that is to say, the distance between reader and narrator becomes entirely insignificant, just as distances between continents vanish in relation to their mutual distance from the sun.
(here's to a moment of clarity)
