99% perspiration, 1% inspiration

Years ago when I was still feeling younger(!), there was a natural tendency in me towards language learning. Learning theory is not a hard row to hoe, it's in practice that you see to learn to use a language or even to use to learn a language needs burning much midnight oil. The cogent evidence (when I speak with indigenous people) says that I seem to be speaking Dutch to a convincing degree cum working out my understanding of differnt dialencts patriotically! With grammar I have no problem but the more I open my eyes to new scopes of a language, the better I see Chomsky's "UG" and Wittgenstein's "Family Resemblence. "
In two weeks I'll have to speak over interpretation of dreams in Dutch for ca 20 minutes.

Lanark dragged me to deep dark shadowy spots of depravity and the extent man can steep himself in decadance. This murky mire land... Evey single page of 573 pages of the body has something to talk over, evey single event is significant symbolically etc.
The next book I am intended to read is The Secret Agent which I should have read a decade ago. While busy doing Dutch problems, my mind was promenading on the hot cover of the book. I got it off the shelf and as it is my way touched it everywhere rubbing my hand on its cover and first pages fingering it in different spots like a cat playing with a mouse. Should I read "the philosophy of kiss," do the rest of Dutch problems, continue with Freud's Dreams, peruse Sweet Violence, interact with T S Elliot's "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock," or think of tomorrow 'what should I cook,' or no, wait, I must do the shopping too, no not tomorrow, there is a lot of paper work waiting to consume my energy and nerves, do I have time to do my job, no I am not sleepy, I have just started smoking again, it's past midnight, where is my cute daughter? add to this all parental obligations towards Mijo.

(116)

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not true love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken,
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.