Thursday, June 23, 2005 9:07 pm

This morning I slept an extra hour--hurrah for Thursdays!--and pled an upset stomach when faced with fried eggplant for breakfast. I just couldn't eat it; I couldn't! It tastes all right, but it's so dreadfully slimy and stringy and cold! My stomach actually jerked in protest and threatened to vomit if I let it pass my lips again to defile my mouth. It's disgusting, like licking a tadpole or French-kissing your rapist. I felt terrible about it, though, because I don't like to hurt Nina's feelings.

The lecture professor seemed to think us less stupid than usual. He is very intelligent, but I long for lessons that don't mention "planned economy" and "dictatorship of the majority". Abby seemed not to wholeheartedly agree with his enthusiastic condemnation of Gorbachev as a criminel and a cheat, but I know nothing whatsoever of the matter and can therefore have no opinion.

After class, which the boys skipped, the six of us--Megan, Erin, McKenna, Abby, Kelly, and myself--went to Izmailovsky Park. I did not buy anything. That place makes me nervous, for all its beauty. I don't like having to ignore people. It strikes me as rude. But I fear talking to them, because I don't know them, and I hate disappointing them by not buying! For example, I was foolish enough this afternoon to express excitement at a set of Chagall-inspired matryoshki, and the seller would have nothing but to take them down for me and show me the inside. And he was such a nice-looking man, it positively broke my heart to have to murmur my thanks and walk away... but I simply couldn't buy the matryoshki. I further fear the most aggressive sellers who go so far as to drape their wares on your body and shout out how they love you. I cannot enjoy shopping there, for to save myself I must march steadily ahead, looking neither to the right nor to the left. I mayn't browse or touch anything I'm not prepared to buy. I also shrink with horror from the prospect of haggling--it strikes me as being in every way dishonest and vulgar.

I found this morning a volume of the selected poems of Heine, and amused myself by giving dramatic readings of them during the break. I must say that my opinion of the poet has been decidedly lowered by his work, and I have paused about 1/3 of the way through, unable to stomach any more for the present. Here are my reasons:

1. Heinrich Heine is a complete pervert. If you actually knew him, he'd be one of those creepy guys who leer at you at the bus stop.
2. Like everyone, Heinrich assumes that others are like himself: in this case, perverts. This is an insulting idea.
3. Heinrich is quite single-minded, to the point of being boring. He thinks only of love (and sex, but I think he believes them to be the same thing). There is no mention of philosophy or politics. Get a life, Heinrich!
4. He devalues religion to the point of freely converting for commerical gain. I find this odious. There is a certain honor in being an honest atheist. But to convert for a pay raise? Disgusting!
5. Heinrich is so fickle and silly. One minute he's swearing "I shall love you beyond the grave", then three pages later it's "you have ruined my life forever", followed by "I shall never love again", followed by "I shall love you [someone else?] until the stars fall", followed by "you hateful serpent", followed by... etc. It is basically the same pattern for 254 pages. (And this is only his selected verse!) No wonder people kept leaving him.
6. Heinrich's poetry is trite and stifling: like eating nothing but French Silk Pie for a week, it leads to vomiting. Every one of his poems involves a dozen or so of the following: larks, nightengales, linden trees, roses, violets, blood, death, graves, windows, pale young men, songs, pagan gods, eternal vows, endless sorrow, dreams, and blushing. For example, I have randomly turned to page 91, which has: nightengale, singing, violets, blood, rose, more blood, more roses and singing, and a Kapellmeister named Amor.
7. I'm not going to go so far as to say he's a pedophile, but there's something suspiciously insulting about the way he's constantly referring to his crushes as "sweet little maiden-child, looking with wide-eyed innocence up into my face as I dandle you in my lap".

I must admit, though, that on occasion his poetry is honest and moving--most usually when he abandons all of that crap about "Nature, Mother of Love" and manages to make no obvious sexual metaphors. Which is, so far, like two poems.

Really, you must think that this journal is turning into a piece of literary criticism, and perhaps it is. This is probably for two reasons: (a) I've been trying to save money, and staying at home with a book is one way to do that; and (b) my thoughts--at least my interesting ones--are all upon what I read.

So, if you please, I'll tell you how crowded the bus was this morning--it was unbearable. It was so hot, and traffic was almost stopped. Well, it was stopped. Finally, after 35 minutes, the driver opened the doors, and we got off and wlked the rest of the way. I was very nearly late for the lecture; however, I think my watch is five minutes fast.

And now I may say that I have also read today a book called Silas Marner by George Eliot. I have until this afternoon--though I don't quite know why--thought (Mr? Ms?) Eliot to be an absolute heathen. (Wait, is there a also a George Sand? Perhaps it's she who is so awfully bad.) At any rate, (Mr? Ms?) Eliot is quite the opposite. I very much like the book, which in no way opposes my principles, and yet manages to give very honest insight into human character. It has a happy ending (of sorts), and it's not too preachy. Well, I confess that it's a bit preachy, in that all of the bad deeds are sufficiently punished--though naturally, no deus ex machina here--but it's not at all preachy compared to, say, Louisa May Alcott, who, I think, was on a personal crusade to rid the world of earrings and dime novels.