I've been feeling quite dorky lately, if I may use that as a serious term and not a childish insult (If I mayn't then I guess I'll have to be content with whatever connotations are connected with that word. I don't think there really is a good synonym for it). First of all I have to tell you that I have managed to stain almost every single shirt I own. Not dusty patches of flour that can just be washed off either, but marks of all sizes and colors, with unknown origins, completely resistant to water and detergent. If anyone knows the best way of getting stains out of clothes I would much appreciate their advise. It has been said before, but one really can endure almost anything as long as they are well dressed.
Of course, being well dressed means next to nothing when you find yourself sprawled on the sidewalk with your bike around your ankles. I love my bike, it is beautiful. It is blue. It lets me fly, filling my soul with bubbles of laughter. But sometimes I think it is trying to kill me. Perhaps that's what it was thinking when it toppled over yesterday, causing my juice bottle to fall out and spill all over the white cement. At the moment I was almost convinced that it was going to get its wish, I was pretty embarrassed. The worst part about where I live is that there are so many nice people. So the moment I fell there were a half a dozen "are you all rights?"At such times, one must pick themselves up and gently right their horrid vehicle, and all while smiling and nodding and shaking their head ruefully and saying "only my pride" and such nonsense. I now have a really pretty patch of pink skin that gradually becomes red before fanning out in a blueish purple mist.
But enough about me. I promised to give my opinion of Moll Flanders, now that it's been properly discussed, but I'm afraid my judgement stays the same. She was not reformed enough in my opinion to serve as a proper warning, which is what she was supposed to be. I've moved on to Pamela, which I liked exceedingly well until page 251, when the girl lost practically all worth in my eyes. There are still two hundred pages to go in her defense, but I hardly think they will be able to absolve her of this one huge blot of stupidity.
It's interesting to be reading these first novels, written in 1722 and 1740 respectively, while also reading Pride and Prejudice, which was published in 1813. The whole feel of them is completely different, as was, no doubt, their intended audience. It's fun to be able to toss one's head knowingly and chalk it all up to society's changing perspective of the novel. Did you know, they were originally coarse in both quality and content and therefore regarded as scandalous? How far we've come from that, and yet how many ways it still holds true. At any rate, these 18th century books are doing strange things to my English, as you can probably tell. But even that is fun, in it's own right.
