Here is what I have managed to accomplish since I arrived in Europe on May 3.
I submitted a new book proposal to Princeton University Press. I submitted the final revised proofs of my Leibniz book to the same press. I put the finishing touches on, and sent off, at least three articles. I co-organized one conference, participated in one other, attended two others, and gave a colloquium-series paper. For these purposes, I travelled to Cambridge, Lyon, Helsinki, and Budapest. I made some, but not much, progress on the translation of G. E. Stahl's Negotium otiosum. In preparation for the essay-review I am expected to write, I read someone else's book on Leibniz (thumbs up). I wrote a long essay for the print edition of n+1. I dealt with the fall-out of a book review I wrote for the electronic edition. I worked through chapters 10, 11, 12, and 13 of Robert Goldman's Devavanipraveśika: An Introduction to the Sanskrit Language. I read Jack Goody's The Theft of History as well as his Logic of Writing and the Organization of Society, Surendrenath Dasgupta's A History of Indian Philosophy, and substantial portions of Valerie Allen's On Farting: Language and Laughter in the Middle Ages (a very serious and learned work). I finished reading Sterne's Tristram Shandy, Rabelais' Gargantua, and began reading Agee's Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. I made 17 posts to this website, not including the present one. I attempted to go running 7 times, and each time was frustrated by the condition of either my own body or of the environment in which I sought to run. In Marseille I bought special 'support socks' to help me run better, but they had no perceptible effect. I drank alcohol on only 2 occasions, which is for me a 17-year record low. I reduced my pants-size by 4 inches, surviving on a diet of mostly fruits and raw vegetables. I made at least two new friends.
Here is what I did not do:
I did not make any progress on the satirical novel I claim to be writing, and for which I had initially envisioned this sojourn as a writing retreat, during which I would take a break from all academic output, as well as from the production of minor occasional pieces. I did not go to Russia. I did not make any progress in my spoken Romanian. I did not begin flossing. I did not watch the World Cup, though the arc of its development from the initial matches to the final served as a sort of background framing device for my summer's activity. I did not discover any good new music, or see any films. I did not begin, as I had intended, to contribute to a charitable organization of my choice.
How many more summers will there be like this one? --Twenty? Thirty?-- Summers of cranking shit out and taking shit in, always feeling like I'm not really doing that thing that, were I to do it, I could stop and say: There. I've done it.