(no subject)
There were people at our school taking photographs today. They wouldn't tell us what they were there for. Conspiracy!
We did meditation on the grass outside the school today. It was fun. We just escaped the thunderstorm too.
I am getting so, so sick of English questions. I love English. I love it wildly. I love words, and poetry, and books, and what you can do with language. The amazing things that can be done. It's the same way as I love Art. With just paints, and the same things around him as are around everyone else, a real artist can make a masterpiece. Well, English is the same, and I love it.
What I hate is English as a school subject. They give you a story. You read it. All is well. Then your eye slips further down the page and this horrible sentence presents itself: 'In your opinion, does the author of this story present the storm scene well? Refer to the text in your answer.' The only person who can truly encapsulate your feelings at this juncture is Bertie Wooster. To quote him: 'Well, I mean to say, what?'
And ALL THE QUESTIONS ARE THE SAME. Every single story they print in the papers, no matter how different they are, have the same questions asked about them. This is not theoretically possible.
I could go on for days about the way poetry is taught. I wish Mr O'Donovan was still here. He agreed with me. As it is, no author could ever pass an English exam.
I have a cello exam tomorrow. I also have lots of homework to catch up on. The closer the exams come, the less work I seem to do...
Reading The Picture of Dorian Gray at the moment. Strange book.
Watched more QI. Stephen doesn't believe in St Anthony, the patron saint of lost things. *snerk*
We did meditation on the grass outside the school today. It was fun. We just escaped the thunderstorm too.
I am getting so, so sick of English questions. I love English. I love it wildly. I love words, and poetry, and books, and what you can do with language. The amazing things that can be done. It's the same way as I love Art. With just paints, and the same things around him as are around everyone else, a real artist can make a masterpiece. Well, English is the same, and I love it.
What I hate is English as a school subject. They give you a story. You read it. All is well. Then your eye slips further down the page and this horrible sentence presents itself: 'In your opinion, does the author of this story present the storm scene well? Refer to the text in your answer.' The only person who can truly encapsulate your feelings at this juncture is Bertie Wooster. To quote him: 'Well, I mean to say, what?'
And ALL THE QUESTIONS ARE THE SAME. Every single story they print in the papers, no matter how different they are, have the same questions asked about them. This is not theoretically possible.
I could go on for days about the way poetry is taught. I wish Mr O'Donovan was still here. He agreed with me. As it is, no author could ever pass an English exam.
I have a cello exam tomorrow. I also have lots of homework to catch up on. The closer the exams come, the less work I seem to do...
Reading The Picture of Dorian Gray at the moment. Strange book.
Watched more QI. Stephen doesn't believe in St Anthony, the patron saint of lost things. *snerk*