open RP: Wednesday holds office hours. Because it's Wednesday.
It was his day. Why not?
The professor of Ancient Runes stuck a ragged half-sheet of parchment on his office door. It read:
Come on in, the water's fine.
He left the door ajar, to underscore the point. Inside the office, he sat with his Kiss Me, I'm Half-Veela! mug half-full of whiskey, and desultorily leafed through Ted Andersson's thoughts on Kormáks saga in The Icelandic Family Saga.
It is curious how awkwardly the saga authors respond to the notion of love even when their narrative is primarily concerned with it. They recognize the phenomenon but are unable to regulate its expression,
Andersson wrote. Wednesday arched a brow, reading on.
The only outlet the men are able to find for their emotions is the composition of stanzas in the frosty court meter, stanzas which are more often calculated to injure a rival than to enhance a lady. While we sense a little more warmth in some of the women, they too are curiously inexpressive.
"Ha."
The saga author is less well able to cope with partial or suspended or divided feelings.
"Bullshit. The saga author had some fucking perspective on feelings, compared to the whiny callow youths of today -- or of his continental contemporaries for that matter."
If some callow Hogwarts youth didn't come to take up some of Wednesday's time, he might end up working himself into a sufficient lather to attend some academic conference or other, or at least write a cryptic letter to the editor of Neuphilologische Mitteilungen. Please, someone distract him from his curmudgeonliness.
The professor of Ancient Runes stuck a ragged half-sheet of parchment on his office door. It read:
Come on in, the water's fine.
He left the door ajar, to underscore the point. Inside the office, he sat with his Kiss Me, I'm Half-Veela! mug half-full of whiskey, and desultorily leafed through Ted Andersson's thoughts on Kormáks saga in The Icelandic Family Saga.
It is curious how awkwardly the saga authors respond to the notion of love even when their narrative is primarily concerned with it. They recognize the phenomenon but are unable to regulate its expression,
Andersson wrote. Wednesday arched a brow, reading on.
The only outlet the men are able to find for their emotions is the composition of stanzas in the frosty court meter, stanzas which are more often calculated to injure a rival than to enhance a lady. While we sense a little more warmth in some of the women, they too are curiously inexpressive.
"Ha."
The saga author is less well able to cope with partial or suspended or divided feelings.
"Bullshit. The saga author had some fucking perspective on feelings, compared to the whiny callow youths of today -- or of his continental contemporaries for that matter."
If some callow Hogwarts youth didn't come to take up some of Wednesday's time, he might end up working himself into a sufficient lather to attend some academic conference or other, or at least write a cryptic letter to the editor of Neuphilologische Mitteilungen. Please, someone distract him from his curmudgeonliness.