My favorite nursery song is “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, once I caught a fish alive” because it’s the only one I can sing without going horribly off-key. I’m a singer from hell but I have great hearing and suffer whenever anybody sings off-key. The reason why I can sing this particular song is that I saw the score. Maybe I should buy a book of scores for these nursery rhymes and peruse it.
There must be something wrong with an introduction to a new edition of a novel if I read it and think, “God, what a bad novel. I so don’t want to read it” only to start reading the novel and discover that it’s incredibly good.
I’m reviewing yet another book, and God, the writing is just killing me. It’s an important subject, I’m glad the book exists, but it’s so badly written that I can’t read more than a paragraph before needing a break. It’s full of sentences like “This poet’s work is very important work and he worked on it tirelessly, leaving a vast stock of important work.”
I don’t know how to allude to this issue without sounding harsh but seriously, folks, how can one remain so completely unaware that this is not the way to write literary criticism?
As I mentioned before, our Chancellor is trying to give himself a raise while denying a puny little cost of living increase to everybody who is not an administrator or with the School of Pharmacy.
It’s during times like these that one realizes how good it is to be part of a union. I don’t feel in the least stressed because I know I’m not alone. There are many people who are working together to defeat the Trump-like little tyrant who is our top administrator. I do my small part and rely on others to do the rest. We are all in the same boat, nobody is isolated or left struggling in misery while everybody else pretends it’s not happening (like when people started to be kicked out by their doctors one by one and there was no union yet to stand in solidarity.)
Look at what’s happening in Florida. People need people. The neoliberal mentality of isolation and competitiveness as the highest forms of existence is defective. It’s downright dangerous at times.