Sorry my entries have been spotty over the past few days. Sometimes life gets in the way of reading classic English literature, and sometimes you just have to go and have scotch with your former coworkers. I noticed, by the way, that I didn't really tell any of them about my blogs. I think that says some unpleasant things about how I feel about the quality of my work. Or maybe just about my self-esteem. Anyway, that can come up with my therapist later this week. For now, back to Ulysses.
It seems like it's a lot easier to like the characters inside whose heads we hear. That says some interesting things about empathy, I think.
And that makes me think of John Green, and his claim that history and literature are exercises in empathy. It does seem true that the more you read, the more capable you are of understanding how it feels to be other people. On the other hand, though, I've known at least two sociopaths, and it certainly didn't help them stop being arseholes.