In love with Beaumarchais

Yesterday a classmate whod missed a seminar asked if she could look over my notes.

I instinctively agreed, but getting them out of my bag, realised that the first paragraph alone read;

Take for example, the f***ing greeks. They start from the beginning, you have the whole unity of action s**t, everything happens, and youre left with a conclusion. It may be a whacked-out, f***ed-up, bloody and sickening conclusion.
But at least the damn thing ends.

I really dont think Ive got the hang of the whole writing notes thing yet.
But reading? Reading Ive got.
Ive got reading down.

I keep surprising myself, and this sounds stupid, by how much I like theatre.
I mean, I thought I liked it a bit, but no, I was wrong.
I like it a lot.

And Im in love with Pierre Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais.
Yes, I know itll never work, were from completely different classes, hes part of the aristocracy, Im not, hes married, in the secret service – which is dangerous, my french isnt very good, hes been dead for 200 years, hes a writer, hes been in and out of prison, I know, I know.
But how can I not love him?
The man writes like a dream and has the kind of life that makes you realise what the concept of life might be.

Im sorry, Im being dull, but I love the fact that I can pick up The Marriage of Figaro, and find a characters who wander into rooms and forget what they came in for.
I always think of classical drama as stuffy, or inhuman (apart from Mr Shakespeare, obviously, who makes a good exception to this and most other rules) but I was completely wrong. I was an idiot.
Plays are about people. Always.
Sure, they might be about people in big dresses shagging their brothers and stabbing their servants, but people are people.
Theres going to be something in there that we recognise.

Hopefully not the shagging siblings bit.
Because thats icky.

Anyway, dull as I may be, Im happy to be dull.
For today, And at least tomorrow, I shall be in love with Pierre Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais.
Which is at least better than last week, when I was in love with John Webster, who although easier to type, had been dead twice as long.
And probably had syphilis.
But didnt they all. Ah, writers.
Do all writers still have syphilis?