Sobriquet 46.8

I think I can officially say that I have hit a wall. These past few days (with the exception of yesterday) have been really difficult for me to get through in terms of work. I can't begin to count the number of essays I began reading only to give up after a few sentences or, in my more ambitious moments, a page or two. As I have intimated, I suspect my overwhelming desire not to read any additional criticism stems from the fact that I'm at the point in my reading where very few essays add much to the information I have gleaned from the previous eighty or ninety articles I have already read. It sucks. What should take me an hour or two ends up consuming an entire day

I do, however, feel obliged to read the remaining essays. I mean, I know that I could probably do just fine by skipping the dozen or so I have left, but I simply can't bring myself to do that. It feels too much like giving up, like taking a shortcut in a race you know you can't win. And, of course, there's always the possibility that buried somewhere in the remaining readings lies a really significant nugget of insight.

I have hit a wall, yes, but it's not solid. I will make my way through it, but it's going to painful. It's like I have been running through a field and, with each step closer to the other side, the undergrowth grows taller, thicker, more tangled.

But I did read another essay, albeit bucking all the way.

As the willowy voice of The Unnameable puts it, "I can't go on, I'll go on."

For tomorrow: Pull out the machete and cut through a bit more of the tangled flora.