The house next to our building has taken it upon themselves to throw a day-long barbecue, complete with live music.
I wish to murder them.
(Oh, and Cane is vile drek, made only viler by the Phish-like music coming from across the driveway.)
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You're wrong, friend, Cane is a wonderfully fascinating addition to the Modernist tradition following Stein and Anderson from a distinct African-American perspective.
Jesus, Cane is the fucking worst. At least it's short. If it were written in 18th-century Britain it would have been 500 pages, minimum.
Go next door. Drink their booze, eat their food, and given the phish-like music smoke their stash. Then, when they're asleep tonight, burn their house down and throw your copy of Cane on the fire.
It's good to combine breaks from prelims with revenge and catharsis if at all possible.
Well of course, if you think Stein is worthwhile reading, I can see how you might like Cane. You'd still be wrong, mind you.
I don't know about Cane (let's blame that on a college prof who assigned me Snow Falling on Cedars as "multicultural American lit"), but I like the idea of a hillbilly defending the honor of Gertrude Stein.
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