this post brought to you by the centre george pompidou

This week should have been a really good week, and in fact it was a really good week, but nonetheless I’ve been kinda depressed for some reason. I’ve been eating weirdly and spending too much money, which are either causes or effects of my depression, and sleeping badly, which is definitely both. I also just read the Chuck Klosterman novel Killing Yourself to Live, which made me simultaneously feel comforted and very homesick for New York City and American cultural snobbery. It reminded me vaguely of the book I think my friend Andrew wants to write, in that it was funny and self-indulgently autobiographical and full of obscure references. It was not the best book ever, which is in no way a judgment of Andrew’s potential future book; Andrew is smarter and more interesting than Chuck Klosterman and much less likely to talk about KISS, so I could conceivably like his book a lot more. But the point is I sort of felt like I had a friend with me, which was nice, and I think I’m going to have to find a new American book now, even though I never buy books and I had also promised myself I would only read in French. I just can’t deal with coming home to find only Flaubert and Molière for company.
I’m thinking that my living situation is mostly to blame for this, that I just do not like living alone. If it’s not that, I really have no idea what’s wrong. I’m generally happy during the day. Today I sat by the Seine and read, and then I had a reasonably entertaining translation class, and then I ate some macarons from Pierre Hermé and saw Gran Torino with my friend Julia, and then I went out to a bar with Francesca (friend from Yale) and her sister and her friend Alma and Alma’s mom. All this was enjoyable. Tomorrow I’m supposed to see my friend Sarah Tishler for lunch, and later I might go to a poetry reading. But something is off. I came home feeling tired and out of it and ate a huge amount of dry cereal and now I can’t sleep. Okay, that doesn’t actually sound so bad. I realize I could theoretically be a lot more miserable. Still, that is annoying in and of itself, since it means I’m not depressed enough to really get into the wallowing part. Paris would probably be a great place to chainsmoke, read Sylvia Plath and not have any friends, but I’m not quite sad enough.
Well. I have three weeks until April break, and after April break I have another three weeks, and then Hannah will move into my foyer and I will no longer feel like I’m living alone. The next two weeks, between Francesca leaving and Yan arriving, are going to be long. And the week before Hannah gets here is going to be longer, especially if that also turns out to be the week before Raffi shows up briefly. But it all seems basically doable. More than doable; it’s springtime and I bought art supplies and I have friends and really things don’t suck. So hopefully I won’t become a fat, nicotine-addicted insomniac. But any recommendations for modern American fiction, preferably available at Shakespeare & Co. in paperback, would be much appreciated.

Published in: on March 20, 2009 at 3:28 pm  Leave a Comment  

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