Luke > Recent Status Updates

Grace would ponder this story for a long time, with great sadness, and it would cause her to make a clear link between education and dignity, between the hard, obvious things that are printed in books and the soft, subtle things that lodge themselves into the soul.

What would have the weight of damnation achieved in the age of Transatlantic slavery had one been unable to pay for their sins.

Is monster erotica a bunch of reincarnated Ancient Greeks taking advantage of their newfound access to late capitalism? Or have I been reading too much lit crit theory.

The poet is the detective and the detective a poet.

-Thomas More

The bad news is, the Celtic Mythology class filled up. The good news is, the Middlemarch class didn't.

lives own their facts

of spent lives

murder

market

misfortunes

&

policy

lying dead

under seas

facts own their lives

in circumstance

&

happening

in trial &

declaration

in the absolute

of rule

&

lord

in the absolute

of water

Reading for class. To all you readers of the "difficult": if you haven't gotten on this already, you can't call yourselves such.

Pumped with the left ventricles the admission that they didn't have any real answers, only the hope that if they kept writing others might point them to answers.

I didn't always get the feeling of wanting to stab something whenever patriarchy-induced name changes were enforced, but then I read Wide Sargasso Sea.

Judging from the comments on in class essay, my prof decided to try to one-up me in indecipherable handwriting when she saw how horrible my penmanship is. Still got 100%, though, so something must've gotten through.

We are the educated ones, taught to keep tightly rigid our boundaries of what is considered real.

Oh my lord these profs who think talking to them a lot means you want to be their friend. I'm talking to you to figure out what you consider an A. That's it. Sure I'd love to be pals, but the institution that pays your salary has a nasty habit of sending cops after major depressive disorder types like me and throwing them into mental health bootcamps, so let's keep it professional, shall we?

Reading Adichie for claaaaasss eeeeeee :3

Lou teaches him the English he'll need up north. I'm hungry. Where's the bathroom? I come from the Dominican Republic. Don't be scared.

White teachers who assign texts written by African-Americans in order to be able to say the N word aren't the worst, but they're really fucking close.

They debated the relation between poetry and violence and the sudden relevance of poetry about violence.

...the other, somewhat younger, appeared to be enthusiastic about learning the language. Before, he says, it dies out.

It refused to understand what was terror and what was war. It refused separations between just wars and unjust wars, bombs and smart bombs, deterrence and self-defense.

They found themselves questioning ambiguity and its presumed neutrality in their work.

Tell her that you love her hair, that you love her skin, her lips, because, in truth, you love them more than you love your own.

But usually when they said these words they meant that the literature resists or revolts against certain literary norms and conventions, not against large political structures like colonialism.

It's great when an assigned work you didn't expect anything from makes up for another assigned work you expected a great deal from.

Professor, why are you going around scaring everyone? Do you think you're the only one worried about the Belarussian people? And, anyway, people have to die of something, whether it's smoking, or an auto accident, or suicide.

UGH MY ENGLISH COUNSELOR IS SO LOVELY AND KIND. SHE MAKES ALL THE REST OF THE BS WORTH DOING T______T

Everyone found a justification for themselves, an explanation. I experimented on myself. And basically I found out that the frightening things in life happen quietly and naturally.

Looks like next quarter's going to be all Chaucer and Shakespeare with dashes of Austen and Celtic Mythology. Ah well. The closer to a white male author's death is to pre-Eurocolonial times, the better I'm disposed towards them.

"They told me that tomorrow I either go to Chernobyl or hand in my Party card." "But you're not in the Party." "Right, so I'm wondering: how do I get a Party card by tomorrow morning?"

There's nowhere to hide. Not underground, not underwater, not in the air.

Book's being recalled and I'm sure as hell not returning it unread.

Reading for class.