I have enjoyed plenty of family get togethers for the last few weeks. My sisters and their families have come to visit from Seattle and Virginia.
I ran into my thesis chair at the grocery store today. It wasn't pretty for either of us. It was mutually awkward shall I say.
I have been spending some my time reading for my thesis this last week. Two of the books have been a very interesting psychological look into Hawthorne and his third novel, The Blithedale Romance, that one of my chapters is also about. One of them is writing about how Hawthorne is trying to justify being an author as a profession; he does this by making comments about society and so feels he is writing something of worth. I am similar to the character Coverdale (who is a stand-in for Hawthorne) who watches from the sidelines and lives life vicariously. The ending of this novel isn't so promising for authors. It seems to declare that using other people's lives to make your own life important only creates isolation. It is ironic that he is an author so adored by English professors who do much the same thing with their lives. I am consistently torn in my studies between this view of art and the fact that I would not trade for anything the worldviews I have gained insight into through the arts.
I guess it's a matter of balance.