The Lesson Today

What have I been up to lately? Not much, really. Attending weird, random parties with random people. Wrecking a dress, with the help of a dog and coffee. And angsting about my terrible choice of profession. No, to be exact (a virtue I don't think I'll ever brag to possess), angsting about the fact that in a few years I will have a useless education, no interesting work and endless debts. And I didn't even particularly enjoy it.

I'm struggling with making sense. Don't we all, someone ought to chorus here, and chorus away, by all means. No one ever makes sense. Language and literature feels more like a hobby. Fun, but totally useless. Humanistic studies are a product of the postmodern world's absolute decadence; it doesn't pertain to society, does not change it or make the tiniest dent in the flow of things. It, and by extension I, make no difference. And I don't think I am all right with that. Maybe I'll just write a scathing essay, detailing the short-comings of UiO, end with a delicate note of fuck you, and go study medicine in Poland.

At least the family would be over the moon. Not only is Alex a philologist, she's studying medicine. The family's pet professions, all rolled up into one grand little girl. At least I would get to cut people open. And reroute the blood stream, remove tumors, limbs, re-attach things.

We read Stein's Lifting Belly, excerpted, for class. In bed, half-delirious with a triple double espresso (three double espressos, in one cup), it made very little sense. Chalked it up to it all being a very complicated modernist mess, and went to sleep. Didn't read any better at eight. But if you read it out loud, it is beautiful. There's a conversation, two people, emotions, ideas, images. Everything fleeting, staying resolutely those final millimetres from your grasp. She plays with words, uses them so many times they completely lose sense. Like I loved doing when I was younger, and like I occasionally do when I get a hang-up on something. The last was 'å spasere' (Norwegian). It translates roughly as to stroll. If you ever read Stein, closet yourself somewhere, and read aloud to yourself. Preferably a few times, the experience changes each time.

I don't think I care for reading it as resolutely 'lesbian'. It celebrates pleasure, imagination, beauty. Leave sexual statements out of it. Yes, I know she wrote as a lesbian, and that I shouldn't dismiss it.

E.M. Forster's Maurice is a sweet enough story, but not something I'd re-read for the pleasure of it. It's decently written, decently characterised, not quite scathing, not quite stinging. Though it is interesting to read as part of LGBT history, which is precisely what I was doing. It's not supposed to be his masterpiece, but I can't say I will make it a priority to read his other works. I'm spoilt with Nabokov.

The Lesson Today

What have I been up to lately? Not much, really. Attending weird, random parties with random people. Wrecking a dress, with the help of a dog and coffee. And angsting about my terrible choice of profession. No, to be exact (a virtue I don't think I'll ever brag to possess), angsting about the fact that in a few years I will have a useless education, no interesting work and endless debts. And I didn't even particularly enjoy it.

I'm struggling with making sense. Don't we all, someone ought to chorus here, and chorus away, by all means. No one ever makes sense. Language and literature feels more like a hobby. Fun, but totally useless. Humanistic studies are a product of the postmodern world's absolute decadence; it doesn't pertain to society, does not change it or make the tiniest dent in the flow of things. It, and by extension I, make no difference. And I don't think I am all right with that. Maybe I'll just write a scathing essay, detailing the short-comings of UiO, end with a delicate note of fuck you, and go study medicine in Poland.

At least the family would be over the moon. Not only is Alex a philologist, she's studying medicine. The family's pet professions, all rolled up into one grand little girl. At least I would get to cut people open. And reroute the blood stream, remove tumors, limbs, re-attach things.

We read Stein's Lifting Belly, excerpted, for class. In bed, half-delirious with a triple double espresso (three double espressos, in one cup), it made very little sense. Chalked it up to it all being a very complicated modernist mess, and went to sleep. Didn't read any better at eight. But if you read it out loud, it is beautiful. There's a conversation, two people, emotions, ideas, images. Everything fleeting, staying resolutely those final millimetres from your grasp. She plays with words, uses them so many times they completely lose sense. Like I loved doing when I was younger, and like I occasionally do when I get a hang-up on something. The last was 'å spasere' (Norwegian). It translates roughly as to stroll. If you ever read Stein, closet yourself somewhere, and read aloud to yourself. Preferably a few times, the experience changes each time.

I don't think I care for reading it as resolutely 'lesbian'. It celebrates pleasure, imagination, beauty. Leave sexual statements out of it. Yes, I know she wrote as a lesbian, and that I shouldn't dismiss it.

E.M. Forster's Maurice is a sweet enough story, but not something I'd re-read for the pleasure of it. It's decently written, decently characterised, not quite scathing, not quite stinging. Though it is interesting to read as part of LGBT history, which is precisely what I was doing. It's not supposed to be his masterpiece, but I can't say I will make it a priority to read his other works. I'm spoilt with Nabokov.