valancy_jane: (Default)
[personal profile] valancy_jane
So yesterday I went to a new book club. I am awful at meeting new groups; fine in one-on-one situations, decent in organization, structure, but miserable in a party atmosphere. I was hot and flushed, nervous and twitchy; but for all that I had a good time.

Having been a Spanish-English double major, with a focus in modern Spanish literature and Victorian English, growing up in a house dominated by westerns, science fiction, and mystery, having developed a taste for classics and fantasy, then running a small magazine for six years, I have to my own great surprise become something of a decently knowledgeable person in terms of literature. But it was still tremendously strange that every time someone mentioned an author, I could say, "oh, yes, the incomparable X, the delightful Z, the scandalous Q." I felt the oddest sensation of being (ever so slightly) impressive for something I really know, something I care about. To be complimented for something you actually care about is a strange and marvelous thing.

And who doesn't love winning goldfish (the edible cracker kind) for knowing how old Hemingway was when he wrote The Old Man and the Sea?

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Date: 2011-01-24 09:19 pm (UTC)
rinue: (Default)
From: [personal profile] rinue
I sort of hesitated to comment, because I don't have anything interesting to say about this, but I thought you might like to know that Ciro and I have been pleased about it for days.

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