I finished the biography of the 19th Century writer a couple nights ago. 424 pages, most of it read over spring break. It's weird--I get more reading done outside of Tucson than in it. I can't work from home.
My reading of the biography, which is "popular" in nature, confirms that I prefer reading world literature. There's a certain Continental spirit lacking in the British and American novel. But that said, I'm not prepared to try to go to another graduate program, where I would be able to pursue more a comparative literature-type line of study. My grad school fellows here at the UofA who are going to transfer came, like me, to the UofA unsure of whether they could even "do grad school." The thing is, they got here, found that they liked working their a's off, to gat A's, while I found out that I'm sort of lazy. I work out like a freak, true, and I'm a devoted blogger, but I'm not a researcher. I am too much of an egotist for that. I just want to read The Charterhouse of Parma. Perhaps this summer I'll read Clarissa just for the sake of saying that I've read the behemoth. 1400 pages! I do like Tucson and don't mind the department, and there's a certain inertia in my bearing.
An idea did occur to me, though. The novel of sensibility and the "psychological" novel of which Stendhal started have a lot in common. "Sense and Psyche: The Novel's Phenomenological Space" would be a working title.