We've entered the university exam-period, a plane of existence where there are no weekdays and weekends -- only exam days and non-exam-days. I'm beginning to suspect my chronic indifference has no relationship whatsoever with my academic productivity, or have at least a few degrees of separation; not only am I looking at my pink-and-brown exam schedule in Bodoni BT font and not panicking, but I'm almost two days ahead of schedule on my Religion, Literature and the Arts paper and am getting a Cliff Notes education on Buddhism. More on that later, when I get my spiritual attic cleaned out and ready to be put on display.
Until then, I've rediscovered the joy of snooty literary magazines, especially those of a particular English extraction. The New Yorker is not the end all and be all of sardonic artsy wit!
Until then, I've rediscovered the joy of snooty literary magazines, especially those of a particular English extraction. The New Yorker is not the end all and be all of sardonic artsy wit!
