Exploring Britain has been a good excuse to return to English literature. I go through phases in my reading habits, and it's been awhile since I've picked up a classic. It's a genre I need to be in the mood for.
I just finished Eliot's The Mill on the Floss and am working through Gaskell's North and South. I forgot how decadent the language is; as someone whose job centers around saying things as succinctly as possible, it's refreshing to read sentences that ramble: not in the sense of going nowhere, but of taking the scenic route to the point.
In related news, my MFA diploma arrived in the mail this week. A degree in Creative Writing is in no way going to further my career, or be construed as productive, yet I'm glad to have done the program. It's not so much a sense of pride as a sense of satisfaction, that I was able to give effort towards something simply for the enjoyment of it. I'm lucky for that.
I hope I'll eventually make it to the Brontë family home in West Yorkshire, or to Hardy's Cottage in Dorset. For now I'll be content with a cup of tea in the living room.
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