Maybe I’m a pretentious jerk, but I die a little inside every time I hear someone mispronounce “Foucault.”
No amount of pumpkin spice lattes will make sweater weather come soon enough.
“We’re more of the love, blood, and rhetoric school. Well, we can do you blood and love without the rhetoric, and we can do you blood and rhetoric without the love, and we can do you all three concurrent or consecutive. But we can’t give you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory. They’re all blood, you see.”
—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard.
Analyzing and responding to this short story is making me remember why I went the rhetoric route in my major. This all just feels so pointless and tedious—I could be sleeping or actually working on my project right now. Instead, I feel like I’m responding to a question on the AP Lit exam—it’s asking for basic stuff, but it’s asking for that stuff in such a strange way that I cannot compute.
In senior sem, before we really delve into our capstone projects, we’re doing a unit on literary theory and criticism. The short story we’ve been assigned (“The Lesson”) to accompany this unit is probably read by middle and/or high school students throughout the country, but I have no friggin’ clue what the narrator, a young African-American girl, learns by the end of the story.