Oh Samuel Richardson, why didn't you have a hobby?

Duck hunting. Smoking. Ballroom dancing. Richardson surely could have found something to do besides writing Clarissa. And then, perhaps, it wouldn't have been 1499 pages long, with incredibly large pages and teeny tiny font.

I have to admit that on days when I'm just reading page after page of

"I'm a rake!"
"I'm innocent!"
"Look, I'm so, so rakey!"
"No you look, I'm so very innocent!" (paraphrased),

I feel like what I'm doing (i.e., "English grad school") is kind of nonsensical. I know there's more to it than this, and that there's a reason why I got into it, but I forget what exactly that reason is sometimes. Part of it is the teaching, which I do like (minus the grading) and sometimes even find rewarding, but I know if teaching is what I want to do I could teach without reading the slowest, saddest fictional seduction ever recorded.

(Note: I know this is a very important work. But I am cranky.)