I should have started with "a description of the project." The setting (my own: vague, generic; a cubicle, a screen, a city; specifics as they come, naturally). The first try, the first choice of translation and format; and why I changed my mind. In Praise of Project Gutenberg. The impetus, of course: the unbearable web with its toils, the depression attendant on reading so much that is trivial; the terrific stupidity of blogging, and yet here's another one.
Reading Les Miserables at Work. Could this be the movement I've been destined all along to found? At least I've started. It took awhile. I had intention, and resistance, from within. I dragged my feet through many blog posts--my "feet" being brain parts, the drag being reading from a glowing screen cascades of blog posts. Among which is there any point in differentiating between articles and essays and reviews, entries and items, listicles, slideshows, and readers' commentary? The last, a category of its own: the sea of cigarette lighters that skirts the concert stage (or cell phone screens, now: the app for rapture) comes to mind but it's too grandiose an image for what goes on below the text. The message pads on dorm room doors, I've just remembered (or were those more like e-mail?). Graffiti, of every kind, an element; front porch of the general store, that kind of agora, an element too, with its eventually hatefully tedious rocking chair wisdom; the newsroom of movie lore, of wisecrack and heartbreak, another and maybe its best face. I read today during an unnecessary detour to The New York Times some comments growing from an article on how people who share beds aren't having sex, much. Clicked my ruby heels three times and wished myself back on the road out of Paris with Fantine.