Illin'
The art of writing, I am now convinced, will be dead inside of two generations. Perhaps some good ink will still be spilt in the next century, but most pages will be marred beyond recognition by informality, carelessness, and eroding standards. I am not usually given to such bleak prophecies, but having spent the last several hours grading papers, I can only conclude that the written word's end is near. Oh, the humanity!
The deathblow, I fear, was this blasted internet, which blended the written word and the spoken word so as to make one indistinguishable from the other. We have, as a species, instant messaged ourselves into idiocy, where we write just the same as we speak. It is all so forgetful of the power of the written word, which inspires, in part, because it must be wielded, not merely used.
There is still more grading to be done, though the lion's share of the essays have been put to rest. I simply had to call it quits tonight, though, owing to the fact that reading these papers was making me feel physically ill. It was Kevin Newsome, a Junior smarter than he lets on, who struck the deciding blow. "When you get married," he writes, "there are marriage vowels that you are supposed to respect and live by while you are married (Emphasis Added)."
Yes, writing will soon be dead. I think I shall miss it.