A Brief Diversion

Don’t worry. The usual obnoxious snap movie apostrophes and baseball speak will return. In the meantime, I have this light post to offer.

I used to tease my buddy about his tendency of buying books that he already owns. I asserted that this was impossible to do. His explanation (and story) were good, though. On the first of every month, he does the t-shirt special at Powell’s, whereupon he hoards a bunch of books in a corner, busts out the celly, and calls home to have real-time inventorying of his books. When I asked how he can’t keep track of his books, he said it was since he didn’t actually own all of the books he’s read—hence, he picks out books he knows he’s read, he just doesn’t know if he also owns them. Fair enough.

Still, I always found it funny. Until this morning. I was putting on my coat, and my eye fell on the book Public Vows: A History of Marriage and the Nation in the history section of my books. “That’s funny,” I thought, “I thought I had just filed that book under criticism on Sunday.” So I look over at criticism. There is another copy of Public Vows. Now, in order to make this as absurd as humanly possible, consider that I had to buy this book for a class this quarter. Not only that, I usually buy my books 1–2 weeks ahead of time. This means I bought Public Vows twice in the mere month of February. I can no longer make fun. But, if you want a copy of Public Vows, give a shout; it’s really good.

My other silly only-in-grad-school-type anecdote is made up of these two passages from Frankenstein, which seem to have special resonance for those of us who pursue more in higher education than beer bongs:

The professor stared. ‘Have you,’ he said, ‘really spent your time in studying such nonsense?’

I replied in the affirmative. ‘Every minute,’ continued M. Krempe with warmth, ‘every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems and useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient?…My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew.’

Ah, reminds one of PhD Colloquium, no? Next:

I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into [this project]. For this I had deprived myself or rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time traversing my bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain: I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams.

This, I imagine, is what finishing your dissertation is like. Except for the “two years” part.