truepenny: artist's rendering of Sidneyia inexpectans (Default)
1. My publishers have chosen a new title for the fourth book: Corambis. Please adjust your television sets accordingly.

2. Still waiting for my edit letter on same. This is making me tense and grouchy, so if I seem a little off, it's not you. Also, there was insomnia last night, which never makes anything better.

3. Approximately three hours after I turned in Corambis on August first, I got a call from my erstwhile department, wanting to know if I was interested in teaching an upper level course in seventeenth century literature this semester. (I.e., junior and senior English majors, and it's an elective course.) Yes, they said enticingly, you can teach anything you want.

I said yes.

(The quick rundown on the course reading, for them as are geeky enough to be interested: Lady Mary Wroth; John Donne (with quick side trips into Herbert and Vaughan); Ben Jonson and the Cavaliers (mostly Lovelace and Herrick); country house poems (Jonson, Aemilia Lanyer, Andrew Marvell, and I'm throwing in Denham's "Cooper's Hill" because it isn't a country house poem, but I'm thinking it'll be an interesting counterpoint); Hamlet; Volpone; The Atheist's Tragedy (yes, there is a logical connection there); The Revengers Tragedy; The White Devil; 'Tis Pity She's A Whore; The Changeling; and we finish out the semester with The Pilgrim's Progress.)

I'm actually kind of deeply geeked to get to do this.
truepenny: artist's rendering of Sidneyia inexpectans (not interchangeable parts)
I have a confession to make.

I hate John Milton.

And when I say, I hate John Milton, I don't just mean that I find him actively boring to read--although I do--or that I disagree with his politics, morals, ethics, and philosophy at almost every conceivable point--although I do--or even that I feel he personally would be someone to avoid being trapped in an elevator with, no matter what it took--although I certainly do. I find George Eliot actively boring to read, but I admire her and her work intensely. I disagree with John Bunyan, perhaps even more vehemently than I do with Milton, and yet I can't help having a kind of grudging half-respectful fondness for him, nutball that he was. And the list of authors who were, on all the evidence, complete assholes in their personal life probably starts with the first person who decided that a writing system could be used to write down things other than cargo manifests.

No, when I say I hate John Milton, I mean that the personality that rises off the pages of his work is as repellant to me as the stench of a pole-cat. This isn't a reasoned hatred, or a defensible hatred; it has nothing to do with the biographical facts of Milton's life or with my opinion of his artistic merits. It's a simple, flat-out, gut-level loathing.

I should admire John Milton's work; I know that, and objectively I can see it. But I don't. I just don't. Because my hatred gets in the way.

And my question on this Saturday, which is cold and snowy and peaceful where I am, is: does anyone else have an author they feel this way about?

Who are your bêtes noires?

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truepenny: artist's rendering of Sidneyia inexpectans (Default)
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