I know there is too much to read and so much work to be done and all of that. I was talking about just that on this here blog a couple days ago.
And yet. All of these violent plays (Barker—yikes! and Rudkin—unbelievably horrific) and all of this depressing theory (I finished Jordan Schildcrout's dissertation on queer killers) — it's getting to me. I almost long for the hard, firm materiality of history reading. I can, at least, address Brockett and Knox and those guys. There's something to fight with. These unspeakable horrors (and American political realities) leave me feeling rather impotent.
I need some sunshine.
I'm going to read a happy book. I wonder if I have any on my shelves.