When I was 16 or 17, I read Turgenev's Fathers and Sons, because I had to, being of a certain political and literary persuasion, and I loved it. I loved it so much that I went out and read every novel I could find by Turgenev, from the wonderful On the Eve to the somewhat dated Virgin Soil, but it wasn't until college that I discovered his short stories, which I immediately decided were perfect, especially First Love. But it was his story The Diary of a Superfluous Man that had the greatest impact on me. Not only did I love it, but I immediately recognized myself in it -- as did, I imagine, pretty much anyone who has spent entirely too much time in academia. It was this story that was my entry into 19th century Russian literature, which has since dominated my fiction-reading life. From there, I went to Lermontov's A Hero of Our Time, Dostoevsky's Notes from the Underground, Pushkin's Eugene Onegin, and of course the apotheosis of the superfluous man genre, Goncharov's Oblomov. I was in heaven: here a superfluous man, there a superfluous man, everywhere a superfluous man man. In other words, in my less confident moments at least, here a me, there a me, everywhere a me me!
Over the last week, I have been laid up with a wickedly obstinate ear infection which decided to merely laugh at the puny prescription ear drops I first tried throwing at it, and thus required much stronger drops and oral antibiotics. Lying in bed, as I've done pretty much constantly since last Tuesday, I've done nothing but think about all of the new projects I'm going to start when I finally have enough energy and get rid of the pain: I'm going to finally get around to writing that paper I've wanted to write, but have been putting off; I'm going to read all of that literature on that philosophical topic I've wanted to read but haven't gotten around to it; I'm going to finally fix those things around the house that I've been meaning to fix since pretty much forever; I'm going to do this, and that, and the other. In other words, my whole life has become making plans for when I'm not just lying in bed making plans. I have finally become Oblomov. I am the superfluous man! There's no denying it anymore. I don't know if this is a good thing.
It also should be noted that it was during this time of mere planning that I started this blog. Perhaps blogging is the ultimate instantiation of superfluity.
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