Several of my friends have signed up for the Inspiring Women Summit on 7-13 May. I can’t tell whether it looks like the good kind of fluff, or its deadly opposite (in any case, it’s free).
“Never did a man paint his infatuation across the heavens as I painted mine for you, rapturously and shamelessly. Not a line would have jarred with my wildest letters to you. Firstly, Tanqueray. Sweep this silly piece away and let us hear this glorious woman play: it is only an unbearable interruption to her. Then Ebbsmith smashed, pulverized, flung into the dustbin: it proves nothing but that Mrs. Campbell is a wonderful woman. […] the notice of For the Crown. Criticism? Just Gods! A mad rapture of adoration. Not even silence about Jones, but an open declaration that sacrifice was worth it if only it pleased you. Ten thousand Jones and Pineros and Shakespears were nothing in comparison. […] you say that I treated you shamelessly and did not appreciate you. Are you not afraid of drawing down lightning on yourself? I! I, who burnt up Shakespear so that his sparks might whirl about you in a halo of glory. […] You even persuaded me that I had been cold and mistrustful – that my love for you is a new thing. It shines in every line I wrote about you. It goes back for years and years and years. And yet it was nothing to what I feel now.” George Bernard Shaw to Mrs Patrick Campbell, 4th January 1913.
Sorry, I’m obsessed.
Poor Brrnrrd is revising for her finals in some sort of foetid hell, but she’s also making me a new journal header. Better.
Cheryl Cole has a job on the US X Factor. Yes, I care. Yes, I’m thrilled. I can stop refreshing DigitalSpy for nowever. In other slightly embarrassing news, this is my favourite picture from the Royal Wedding.
I am reading a book about feminism and Shakespeare. Rarely has a book provoked me more. I want to frame some bits and exact terrible revenge on others. I know we’re not just allowed to shout WRONG as a part of literary studies (we have to say “misguided” or “problematic” in smallcaps and with nice grammar), but my god, this book is everything I rage against in performance studies.
Work is dragging, today. I’m bribing myself with a download of Punch from 1897 in order to slog through British Library Newspaper searches around the time of the Lyceum Hamlet. HOW CAN I STAND THE PACE.