temps (thankfully) perdu
god, it just occurred to me how awful it would be if proust had had a blog. can you imagine? jesus. he'd never have shut up.
other literary figures we can be thankful died avant la internet:
ayn rand – no need to give her any more opportunity to put thought to form, eh?
anthony powell – 'a dance to the music of time' would have gone on forever and been even more boring than it already is. actually, that might not be such a bad idea, as then we could all have been spared the 1997 c4 adaptation which i am nominating as the worst product of the adaptation-mania of late 20th century british television.
virginia woolf – 'i know,' said leonard, i'll just log on to ginny's blog and see what she's been up to… oh, christ, oh, how awful… wow… oh, god… this is so depressing… oh.. maybe we should move to richmond.'
ted hughes – as he would only update it when he came across some particularly picturesque roadkill, thus driving his wife to write poetry about her dreary petit-bourgeois yank family and their awful awful ways.
catherine cookson – new entry every three minutes, all of which mysteriously seem to be about a young scullery maid in an unspecified mill town who up ends up marrying well, opening a woolshop, burning it down to claim the insurance and then, possibly, dying in either the crimea or abject poverty.
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