Last night, before going to bed, I had one of those epiphanies that provides insight so obvious that it shouldn't be called "insight," it should be called "a brick wall your nose is up against but that you've somehow failed to notice, nimrod." My stomach has not been reacting well to my conference paper. If my brain has been saying, for once, "write, write, write," my stomach, which can spot trouble a mile away, has been threatening to dispel something in order to get me to stop writing and think for a minute. The whole point of the paper is demonstrate 1. how Burian switches the dominant in May from spring nature to revolution and 2. how that impacts Mácha's reappraisal in 1930s Czechoslovakia. Last night I realized that my discussion of the production merely circles around the point, which is a very bad thing when you only have seven pages in which to say something and one of those pages is already occupied with background material. I'm also missing the link between the production and the 1930s...well, I do have it but the link is contentious, although accurate. It also involves redefining an ism and dragging in the reinforcements, my beloved les poètes maudits. Villon may have been a gallowbird, but he is a reliable rogue. I would need to do this in two pages...Uh, no. So, it's time to cut and paste. In a few hours I meet a post-swim Doctor Cz., whose mind will be sharp and unclouded (meeting with her in the late afternoon is a disaster), so I'll discover if my stomach is credible. Even though I see the exit and it looks as though I'll fit, I'm feeling very Mácha-esque: Dalekát' cesta má! Marné volání!! (Distant is my journey! Futile my calling!!) -Zh.


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