Although I am not by any means posessed of a butler, I am posessed of a grandfather who is posessed of an inordinately large amount of Agatha Christie novels. I've been occupying some of my time reading said Agatha Christie novels while drinking Earl Gray tea and eating bread with honey. (When left to my own devices, I eat only bread with honey, which leads to interesting energy crashes at inopportune moments.) When I get to an English-speaking country, I plan on saying "rubbish!" "balderdash!" and "poppycock!" at every possible moment. I must say that it's so refreshing to read something that used to be major entertainment before the digital age. Everything seems charmingly removed and otherworldly. Murders are solved because the detective spots the chalk on the sleeve of the suspect - no forensic science necessary, and people speak with a propriety that belies their sinister intent. Next time it rains, pick up something by her. It's not quality literature, which is why it's so fun. Or get a butler. I want a butler. I also want to live in a yurt when I grow up and be a bike messenger in Stockholm. Something tells me something's gotta give.
On a related(?) note, I think I'm giving up on Ulysses for now. I'm not getting enough out of it. James Joyce: 1. Me: 0.
