I'm getting frustrated. Now that my pile of unread Coetzee criticism has ballooned to a size that will probably require another month's worth of work to get through, I find myself increasingly irritated by the prospect of reading more criticism. I mean, geez. I had hoped to have finished writing the chapter by now but, with every article I read, it seems another two tack themselves on to the bottom of my reading list. Still, as I grow more frustrated by the often repetitive nature of my research, I try to remind myself that recently, in response to a question posed by my father, I was actually able to give a long, thought-out lecture on Disgrace, discussing topics I would never have known anything about had it not been for all those texts I have read. In other words, all this reading hasn't been for naught. It just feels that way sometimes.
Clearly, the frustration stems from the fact that the process keeps drawing itself out like a particularly viscous piece Silly Putty. Ugh. (Of course, having spent several hours fruitlessly attempting to track down an oft-cited article from a South African newspaper this afternoon may have been the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back . . . ).
I'd write more, but it is nearly two-thirty and I would like to get to bed soon. I will have to put off discussing the article I read today until another day, unfortunately. I'm just a bit too drowsy to write anything requiring more than a minimal amount of concentration.
For tomorrow: Read another article.