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kellinatorI just sat through my first class since the disaster. In the wake of all this, Foucault and his petty insistence that "the author does not exist" seem, for lack of a better word, stupid. Of *course* the author exists. What's the point of literary theory -- denying the obvious? My life's work is beginning to seem more and more like a joke. I can't imagine spending forty years preaching the virtues of Foucault and his no-grip-on-reality cronies. Dropping out to write romance novels becomes more and more appealing.
I'm also upset because I see people determined to continue with pettiness and squabbling which we should have learned isn't important. The drama I encounter is getting to be more than even a gossip like me can care about. On the other hand, one of my friends just showed that he can call a spade a spade. Way to go, Jason.
I'm also upset because I see people determined to continue with pettiness and squabbling which we should have learned isn't important. The drama I encounter is getting to be more than even a gossip like me can care about. On the other hand, one of my friends just showed that he can call a spade a spade. Way to go, Jason.
