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It seems I have forgotten how to read a novel. Or perhaps, I have forgotten how to enjoy a novel, and I can't help but feel it is the fault of this class. If meaning is truly meaningless (as it is the product of random chance) why do I rack my brain for substantial evidence of the contrary? I feel as though I have trained myself to question everything, because, of course, there is no truth. Why then, has my ability to experience literature been conflicted? Literature, and fictional novels in particular, were not necessarily intended to offer the reader fact in a time of questioning. There are no "truths" to be had (or are there? I suppose it depends on what you're looking for). With this in mind, I have surprised myself in my interpretation of Forster's intentions. I keep asking "what is he trying to convince me of?" and have, thus, lost the ability to "hear the golbins" as it were. This is a problem.

I envision Mrs. Wilcox walking across the green and imagine the magical elm tree at Howard's End, but cannot appreciate these visuals for their beautiful simplicity. Instead, I wonder why and how these details will be utilized to work towards the "goal" of this book. In my mind, there is a check list, and I am not surprised to find that almost every character has radiated out from a fixed position into the worlds of those they would not normally experience.

I am trying to predict the destination without taking time to notice the path along the way. It's sad. Perhaps Howard's End will act as my transition from the critical reading of scientists to the enlightened imaginations of dreamers...at least, I hope so. 

I continue to strive for meaning in art.