Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sodding British Museum Reading reading reading reading. Reading books with titles like _Creative Women in Medieval and Early Modern Italy_ and _The power of Images: Studies in the History and Theory of Response_. Reading as I commute into work, eat lunch, commute back out. And I still have no bloody idea what my thesis statement is going to be. I have a tightly defined area of research, sure. I'm reading some books that are actually interesting. I'm still hounding the British Museum about that goddamn engraving because a bloody fortnight has passed, chaps, and it's time to make with the photo request before I make like Henry VIII with the wives who nagged him the most. My roommate muttered something under her breath about $300 fares and Al Italia, so the second she returns from Las Vegas (sometime today) I'm going to back her into a corner and extract any details on that topic. The thing is, I've never done primary archival research, so if I get over to Italy, I'm going to have to learn on the job, so to speak. There's a slightly obscure little saint who might fit into what I'm looking at really well, but I don't even know if she left any writings that are still extant, and if they've been published, translated, whatever. And as we all know, my Italian sucks vast juicy rocks, which doesn't help things much either. Of course, if I can get a three hundred dollar fare to Italy, I'm going, with or without anybody. I'm so hungry for Italy that I can't stand it. I want to be there again. I don't care that the Italian men don't think I'm cute and pinchable. I don't care that I look like a dribbling idiot when I try to speak the language. Something deep in my bones is calling me back. Seduced by a country. This never happens to people who visit Switzerland. 3:16 p.m. - 2003-06-19 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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