I saw this somewhere on facebook (honestly, what isn't on facebook, somewhere?) and thought I'd go ahead and do it. I love lists, almost as much as I love chocolate chip cookies, root beer, and swearing at my computer (all of which, as of today, Ash Wednesday, I will have given up one Lent or another--although I've given up swearing across the board, not just at my computer. That's still the only time I savor it, though.)

Fifteen Books (Novels AND Plays) That Have Changed My Life (in vague order, but not much of one)
1) The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
This made me want to write. I wrote, in fact, a one-hundred page handwritten adaptation of The Three Musketeers that I slaved over in fifth grade. It's set in junior high school, in a girl's school, in New York. It's really bad. I've improved since then.
2) Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Joan Aiken
This is the first Joan Aiken book I ever read (if I'm honest, Mom read it to me) and only later did I realize that it's the first in a series of excellently dark and vaguely Victorian novels for children. The series got even better after I realized that it's set in an alternate British universe. You know, the one where King Arthur existed in the Renaissance.
3) Black Hearts in Battersea by Joan Aiken
Second in the series. I was frustrated by the ending, and decided to write Joan Aiken. She replied, and we struck up a correspondence in which she told me that my favorite character, Dido Twite, was based on a character in Dickens. She challenged me to figure out which one. I sent her a few guesses, none of which were right. Unfortunately, she died before I guessed correctly. Black Hearts in Battersea is also notable for containing my first fictional character crush, Simon, who shows up in London an aspiring art student and who over the course of the series is discovered to be the Duke of Battersea. He likes Dido, but she wants to lead her own life and turns his marriage proposal down. I always had mixed feelings about that. Sort of like in Little Women with Jo and Laurie. But that book's not on this list, and the stuff with Dido and Simon only happened later in the series, so I seem to be straying from the point...
4) Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand
Apparently I have an affinity for French swashbucklers. And unrequited love. In high school, I saw too much of myself in Cyrano.
5) The Shadow in the North by Philip Pullman
I've already written about Frederick Garland on this blog (see Thursday, May 8, 2008), but for now I'll repeat that Philip Pullman showed me that books can mean different things and different times of your life, and that they can break your heart. Also, I dread a day when I stop finding Jim Taylor awesome and hilarious. Such a good secondary character.
6) Angels in America by Tony Kushner
It turns out hilarity and sadness can exist together, that bombastic staging doesn't have to overwhelm social commentary, and that a mixture of religion, history, porn, humor, and death will always be award-winning.
7) Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
Shy girl gets strong silent (ugly but not) type, despite the homicidal woman in the attic who makes noises in the night. Enough said.
Also, I like to pretend the St. John section doesn't exist, and it surprises me every time I re-read.
8) The Lymond Chronicles by Dorothy Dunnett
This six-book series has one of the most fascinating heroes I have ever encountered. For the entire first novel, it is unclear whether he is the hero of the villain. That feeling recurs over the course of the next five books, but you can't help thinking everything will work out in the end. It does. Sorry to spoil. :)
Bonus points for the Spaniard disguise in book one, the rooftop chase in book two, the introduction of the new improved Phillipa in book three, the love pilgrims in book four, the hall of the revels (inspiration!) scene in book five, and the scene between Lymond, Phillipa, Marthe, and Jerott in book six. And of course the happy ending, because the way Dorothy Dunnett apparently loves to kill people off, I was unsure what form the happiness would take.
9) The Aubrey/Maturin series by Patrick O'Brian
For every awkward pun or misspeak Jack Aubrey made, every time Stephen got excited about cataloguing specimens or about Diana or was just cutthroat about offing other spies, or every time Killick said "soused hog's face," my heart glowed a little brighter. Twenty one books of early nineteenth century swashbuckling, romancing, spying, and traveling the globe. Between this and the Lymond Chronicles, I am completely ruined for other historical fiction. Seriously.
10) The Untouchable by John Banville
Thinly veiled story of the Cambridge spies + Banville's signature style of an old guy looking meanderingly back over his life + gratuitous scenes in Ireland = one of the only books I've read once and decided that it was one of the best I've read.
11) The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
I liked Philip Marlowe so much that, in middle school and high school, I wrote a series of my own fifties detective stories. The stories themselves were nothing special, but the three main characters are still my favorite characters that I have ever created. Right now my plan is to write my senior creative thesis on them, probably in novel form. We'll see. Either way, thank you Raymond Chandler.
12) The Once and Future King by T.H. White
T.H. White is responsible for kicking off my Arthurian craze (which still continues after a fashion and which never, ever, included an affection for crystals or Glastonbury; it was always mostly a matter of being in love with Sir Gawain and finding Arthur's family dynamics fascinating). The craze was later fueled by other authors of varying skill, but White remains one of the best. Why else would I like King Pellinore so much? Or Monty Python, for that matter? There's really no other explanation. (Except the Spanish Inquisition sketch. Priceless.)
13) Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
The first Dickens I read in my quest to find Dido Twite (didn't find her). Herbert Pocket cracked me up, Miss Havisham freaked me out, Pip annoyed me, I wanted to give Joe a hug and some "wittles," and Estella was incomprehensible. It was awesome. Why else would I have kept coming back to Dickens for more.
14) Arcadia by Tom Stoppard
Tom Stoppard is the one who put the idea into my head that to be a writer it is necessary to know a little bit about everything.
15) This is cheating a bit, but: The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, The Book of Salt by Monique Truong, and Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin
What can I say. Apparently I love Parisians and visitors to Paris drinking, screwing, and angsting. (Maybe it's a matter of me living vicariously?) Does it get any better? I don't think so.

TWO AND A HALF WEEKS LATER, I'm awake and alert. Oh boy. But seriously, that's the kind of semester it's been. That's the kind of year it's been.
This is no complaint, actually. All the things taking up my time are things I love (well, besides math homework, that is).
Why am I posting now, you may ask? Why do I suddenly have time? Because I'm avoiding choosing my paper topic for my Colm Tóibín class. There's one paper worth 60% of the grade, and on the first day we were handed a sheet with thirty-seven possible paper topics, to which he added two just off the top of his head. I initially narrowed that list of thirty-nine down to fourteen, and then a bit more so now it stands at eight. Huzzah! By the end of tonight, though, I shall have to have it down to one because I foolishly agreed to present my idea first (i.e. on Monday) so as to not have to present a full-fledged paper, just a plan.
And this weekend I'm going to NYC, since Mom is visiting (yay!).
Thus: the paper topic choosing imperative and subsequent procrastination. Because it's not breathing down my neck per se. Yet.

Aside from the Dublin class (I call it that, but it really encompasses Ireland and ALL THAT IT STANDS FOR), Creative Writing with Jeffrey Eugenides is the best Creative Writing has ever been here (and that's saying a lot). It is my two-hour oasis in the middle of the week, where everyone is Midwestern-friendly and clever and offers amazing criticism. Plus his poodle came one time, so that was nice.

Religion in Film just hit its stride. Of course, we're talking about Hitchcock and Freud, which could be its own class really. I've decided I really like Jung, though, at least from the two-page cursory reading I did for class tomorrow. I'm also convinced that Frank Pembleton (or at least, let's face it, one of the Homicide writers) reads Jung. Example:
Pembleton: Listen, let me tell you something. We're all guilty of something, cruelty, or greed, or, or going 65 in a 55 mile per hour zone. But you know what? You wanna think about yourself as the fair-haired choir boy? You go ahead.
Bayliss: All right. Okay, so what are you saying, huh?
Pembleton: I'm saying you got a darkness, you, Tim Bayliss, you got a darkness inside of you. You gotta know the darker, uglier sides of yourself. You gotta recognize them, so that they're not constantly sneaking up on you. You gotta love them, 'cause they're part of you, because along with your virtues, they make you who you are. Virtue isn't virtue unless it slams up against vice. So consequently, your virtue's not real virtue. Until it's been tested. . . tempted.

English 205 the 14th through the 18th century is fine. It's the only class I am forced to take to become and English major, so I'm swallowing my daily dose of Chaucer like a champ. We just got to Thomas Wyatt, though, so things are looking up.

Which brings me to astrophysics (seriously.) This is a class called The Universe and lovingly nicknamed Stars for Stoners. (In reality, it seems to be filled mostly with jocks--did they miss the geology memo?) I love lectures. I love observation nights when we go to the campus telescope and look at points of interest and have them explained to them. I'll love going to the Planetarium in New York next week. The homework (as previously stated) I DO NOT LOVE. Ah well. C'est la vie, and after this the only math I'll have to do is taxes.


The roommates are all doing well, and tomorrow Roommate J and I are going out with (Ex)SoccerRoommate, which is always fun. The big news, of course, is that I recently learned I'll be working in Paris this summer! I've been given an internship after applying through a great French program here. I'm not sure about the dates (I'll likely find out next Friday when I have my meeting with the organizer), but I am very, very excited and Mom is already shopping online for apartments to rent.

The week ended with a bang, as Roommate J and I enjoyed the revelry at the Chinese New Year banquet, and then as Roommate J, HaHa, and I went to see CC's dance performance Saturday night. She breakdances. It's awesome.
I've had all my classes, and (as per usual) love them all. Unfortunately, recapping them will have to wait until I am more awake and alert. So until then, I leave you with this jem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83JDXXKzOXg

Nestled back in the loving embrace of the Orange Bubble, I spent last night vigorously in denial that classes start today. I had my first this morning, but the best (hopefully) is yet to come with my Dublin English class this afternoon.
At any rate, I present you with two of the fruits of last night's labor:
Cole Porter rocks.

The following refers to my theory (doubtless to be expounded on this blog at a later date) that Homicide Detective Tim Bayliss's haircut fluctuates to the extent that it does because it is a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.