far from ambrosia
I just had conversation with a visiting professor, a man who hopes to become a fine resource to future oenophiles scholars, but who seems too desperate to prove it. He told me he'd list Princeton as a "safety school" when it comes to Slavic Studies.
The academe is a peculiar, blind, cave-dwelling fish, by god. Perhaps I should write romance novels, if for no other reason, in order to maintain my sanity. I will keep a firm grip on the supple trash of the Average American. In itself, there is nothing, nothing, nothing wrong with the genre... except, possibly, that one must always paint pictures with a limited palette. But I think I could do justice to the agile curve of a thigh. I could.
...
Mientras, Dostoevskii writes like, and I quote Bakhtin here, "a toothache." Ravel plays like a migraine. And Pushkin is my rapid, rapid circulation.
Let us not discuss my day-long Saturday hangover. It was a half a bottle of wine, rather civilly imbibed with a Mishenka, in a fragile stakan' at the Amherst Brewing Company. I foresaw a headache, so I drank two gatorade bottles of water. TO NO AVAIL! Terrible.
I slept an extra forty minutes this morning, because sleep deprivation need not be a measure of dedication.