A Wall of Books

Oddly enough, doing my Chaucer homework tonight I found an interesting argument relating him to Flaubert. I am not sure I agree with it, nor have I before considered the connection. Which is probably why I stopped to look at it. Almost as if someone had announced that Chaucer makes them think of bubble gum.
I have to admit, I have not read very much Flaubert. In fact I have read more about him than by him, and mostly by Sartre who had a love/hate relationship with Flaubert’s work, and his life, for reasons quit unknown. But then again I have read more by Sartre, then about him, so these reasons may very well be common knowledge among his biographers.
Flaubert got me thinking about Mallarme, and then Llosa’s book, that I no longer have. Or have misplaced. So basically my little literary trail came to a dead end. I was too tired to come up with any other connections, so I sat by bookcase hoping something catches my attention.
I seem to have had some sort of fascination with period pieces at one point. The kind written by historian’s turned novelists, artistically piecing together a plot from otherwise mundane names and dates. Sure, it is a little embellished, but for the most part not completely inaccurate. I apparently have quite the Gregory and Elyot collections.
Half of the time I think I have misplaced a book it turns out it is at my parents’s house. I should just bring all those boxes home. Surprise hubby with them. Oh look, we need a new bookcase. Or five. I will have my books usurp the house. A coup of various natures. Just like that Tegan and Sara song. Munchie and Ducky can build a fort out of them, while I reinforce the walls.
I’ll get the ice cream!

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