stacks

* Being in the library to work on a musicology paper that I had no hope of comprehending in my numbed, utterly distracted state. This was me. I'm still that person.

*The grimy desks are the same, the aged volumes institutionally bound are the same, the powerful musty smell of books has not changed. Why should it have?

*I remembered that I had loved this place powerfully as a sanctuary, a place to play at being an academic and reading and writing for long hours till the bubble of restlessness burst.

*It always feels good, still, to pick out a volume or two, take them home for free. They might never be read, but say, what if one day I take a sudden, strong interest in John Donne? I must equip myself ahead of that day that we await with faithful anticipation.

every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main

You wonder where these things are headed.

I cannot for the life of me understand how people are so easily duped. They want to be duped, possibly. I have a hard time writing coherently. Down with adjectives.

Nonsense.
The Jersey Shore. What's that all about?

It would be nearly impossible for me to be less worried. Just wanted you to know.

That's what matters most.

Again, nonsense.