I can't seem to get excited about Stendhal's The Charterhouse of Parma, though I don't see why I'm having such trouble with it. The novel bears a certain tonal resemblance to Thackeray's Vanity Fair, sly yet affectionate yet Machiavellian. Thackeray's Becky Sharp is a wonderful creation, and  I suspect Fabrizio's sexy aunt in Charterhouse is another such charming amoral anti-heroine. But even though I'm a hundred pages into the book, I haven't cemented my relationship with the novel . . . by which I mean that it hasn't yet become a page-turner. I keep putting it down and forgetting it.

I'll be spending this morning on Frost Place business: working out afternoon writing prompts for the conference and reading Frost's poetry. It's our director Baron Wormser's plan to have Frost himself be central to the conference week. Thus, Frost must become central to me for three weeks. I'll keep you posted on what transpires.