"That's what I love him for! These sudden gestures of his!..."

It took me about seven hours from when I woke up today to notice that I hadn't gone to any of my classes.
The interview cut into comparative politics, and mass media was canceled, as per the holiday, so...that was that.
Before and after this realization, I spent the day reading outside--on the lawn, the other lawn with tom, the shade with ryan, my lunch table on the slanted amsterdam sidewalk around 120th--squinting at the creamy white pages of Crime and Punishment and smelling fleeting hints of weed.

This book is so I N C R E D I B L E. It's so obvious in such a conspicuous and meaningful and exciting way that makes me so jealous yet so worked up. The last time I read it, which was also the only time and the first time, it became my favorite book, amazed at the language and the perfect imagery. Now, re-reading it, I recall the speeches and tremblings and sudden character entrances and know what comes next right as they happen, the way you become aware that you know the lyrics to a song the instant after you hear them sung...

I went to lunch alone, as I always do and love to do, and sat outside the restaurant, trying to eat my second penne vodka in three days..."Why do restaurants have you sit outside? We're not in Europe! This is an avenue, not a piazza," says Wyatt...but it's such a treat that once spring arrives and every place with a piece of sidewalk props tables open outside that it doesn't matter if we're all being pseudo-european. So, I sat with my open book and my bowl of pasta surrounded by MBA-ers on their lunch break, one group of which spent fifteen minutes talking only about perfume, and read. I know...pretty boring, and pretty lonely. But I'm weird--it's the best part of my day. Especially when I get to moments like this:

Once and for all, never ask me about anything. I have no answers for you...Don't come to me. Maybe I'll come here. Leave me...but don't leave them. Do you understand me?

It was dark in the corridor; they were standing near a light. For a minute they looked silently at each other. Razumikhin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov's burning and fixed look seemed to grow more intense every moment, penetrating his soul, his consciousness. All at once Razumikhin gave a start. Something strange seemed to pass between them...as if the hint of some idea, something horrible, hideous, flitted by and suddenly understood on both sides...Razumukhin turned pale as a corpse.

"You understand now? Raskolnikov said suddenly, with a painfully contorted face. "Go back, go to them, he added suddenly, and, turning quickly, he walked out of the house...

I will not describe here what went on that evening at Pulcheria Alexandfrovna's, how Razumikhin went back to them, how he tried to calm them, how he swore that Rodya needed to be allowed some rest in his illness, swore that Rodya would come without fail, would visit them every day, that he was very, very upset, that he should not be irritated; that he, Razumikhin, would keep an eye on him, would find him a doctor, a good doctor, the best, a whole consultation...In short, from that evening on Razumikhin became their son and brother.