There is something about writing midterms papers that is so profoundly paradoxical that my brain almost implodes when I try and wrap my mind around it. On the one hand, my ability to write a good (meh) five-page paper in less than two hours will never cease to amaze me. It's like type-a, type-a, type-a (if you just got that Simpson's reference, I love you), and all of a sudden, I have three-and-a-half pages on visionary imagination in "I Wandered lonely as a cloud." However, I also want to jump out of one of the teeny-tiny Barnard library windows as I complete my concluding paragraph on the transcendent power of poetry and the "inward eye." Who am I? Who the fuck AM I?
Self-deprecation. Such is the life of an English major. As I sit. Drinking my tea. With a copy of "Washington Square."
...DAMMIT.
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1 comment:
swap "washington square" for "portrait of the artist" and throw in some rainy days, and you have me circa sophmore year.
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