Am having a ridiculously busy weekend/Sunday, obsessing over fragment 49 (dear, graceless Atthis) and Marlowe. I spent four hours this afternoon trying not to obsess over Marlowe.

The stupid sleeping pattern continues, I have been sleep walking during my grammar conversations with old EM apparently. And talking to myself. And singing the word "Milton" repeatedly, to Half Man, Half Biscuit tunes. (Bad idea.) I still reckon I am a few days off doing a Blake and seeing him.

So the moral is "Do not direct plays, chaps". Or write essays to Jeff Buckley records. With Hallelujah on repeat. It is not good for you.

Concerning icons (I reach the point at last) we are having Sappho. and H.O.M. because we have the fictional version of him, so 'tis inevitable.

I would put an argument in for the protagonist of Heinrich Boll's "The Clown" actually. Very pseudo bohemian loserish, though I do not advocate consuming that much cognac. Or being a clown.

(Nor do we advocate being battered to death by one's lover, who later commits suicide).