Recent happenings
Always something more pressing and urgent to be attended to rather than an LJ update. I apologise. These past two weeks have seen lectures and seminars suspended to make way for exams and revision. For some reason the School of English spoiled us and declined from setting us any exams whatsoever. On the other hand, there was a somewhat horrific language essay to be written, but in retrospect I have to admit it was a fine way of consolidating everything I (was supposed to have) learnt last semester. The scientist in me enjoyed fitting all the linguistic features together into meaningful sentences, I suppose.
There was, of course, the matter of my philosophy exam to be attended to; I focused on the substance dualism vs functionalism/physicalism part of the course in my reading. Absolutely brilliant stuff, I've kept the library book I had to read sections of and intend on finishing it this week. The exam itself was okay; not my greatest essay ever, but passable considering my absolute lack of experience in thinking and writing philosophically at an academic level.
With the above events concluded by the Thursday of last week, I have an entire week free, essentially, until lectures and whatnot begin again next Monday. I read Lady Oracle by Margaret Atwood today, for my new subsidiary module next semester. At least I can't be accused of being completely lazy and irresponsible when it comes to my reading. Tomorrow I am debating starting either The Stone Diaries or A Complicated Kindness. Anything other than continuing with Bleak House, which, whilst not being a dull book, is still not exactly compelling. Of course, any reading I do tomorrow will compete with a potential visit to the bookshop on campus to spend money I don't have on Hardy's Wessex Poems and Coleridge and Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads.
A few days ago a friend who is a History student wanted to borrow my friend's laptop to watch some DVDs about the origins of World War I on. Eventually the three of us sat on my friend's bed and watched about two hours of antiquated footage and commentary together; the things we do to fill the hours, to procrastinate. It made me miss History, really; so much was mentioned that I was greatly familiar with. Hearing it all touched upon briefly but in a firmly connected manner reminded me of my brief flirtation with the idea of studying History at university, a few years ago. Admittedly the idea only lasted about a week, but still, amidst the endless pages of facts to be learned, after the hours spent brutally training myself to structure arguments, I loved it. How much my English essays owe to my History lessons, and History to Biology in turn. Reading my bathroom-mate's Genetics notes on the structure of the kidney made me smile once, as the familiar diagrams and labels conjured up memories of dissections and bad smells on an obscure Wednesday morning.
Writing makes me nostalgic. I am only like this half the time in real life, and that in itself is an exaggeration, I'm sure. I need daylight and dry grass; I need to lie outside and listen to CDs through crackling earphones. I need that perfect mingling of the scents from the pages of an aged book and cut grass. New books are sometimes so clinical in their crisp pages and unsettled ink that lightly smudges and marks your fingertips.
Often I don't even know why I stay up so late. Reading, writing, talking, music; I sabotage my sleeping hours with such ease.
There was, of course, the matter of my philosophy exam to be attended to; I focused on the substance dualism vs functionalism/physicalism part of the course in my reading. Absolutely brilliant stuff, I've kept the library book I had to read sections of and intend on finishing it this week. The exam itself was okay; not my greatest essay ever, but passable considering my absolute lack of experience in thinking and writing philosophically at an academic level.
With the above events concluded by the Thursday of last week, I have an entire week free, essentially, until lectures and whatnot begin again next Monday. I read Lady Oracle by Margaret Atwood today, for my new subsidiary module next semester. At least I can't be accused of being completely lazy and irresponsible when it comes to my reading. Tomorrow I am debating starting either The Stone Diaries or A Complicated Kindness. Anything other than continuing with Bleak House, which, whilst not being a dull book, is still not exactly compelling. Of course, any reading I do tomorrow will compete with a potential visit to the bookshop on campus to spend money I don't have on Hardy's Wessex Poems and Coleridge and Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads.
A few days ago a friend who is a History student wanted to borrow my friend's laptop to watch some DVDs about the origins of World War I on. Eventually the three of us sat on my friend's bed and watched about two hours of antiquated footage and commentary together; the things we do to fill the hours, to procrastinate. It made me miss History, really; so much was mentioned that I was greatly familiar with. Hearing it all touched upon briefly but in a firmly connected manner reminded me of my brief flirtation with the idea of studying History at university, a few years ago. Admittedly the idea only lasted about a week, but still, amidst the endless pages of facts to be learned, after the hours spent brutally training myself to structure arguments, I loved it. How much my English essays owe to my History lessons, and History to Biology in turn. Reading my bathroom-mate's Genetics notes on the structure of the kidney made me smile once, as the familiar diagrams and labels conjured up memories of dissections and bad smells on an obscure Wednesday morning.
Writing makes me nostalgic. I am only like this half the time in real life, and that in itself is an exaggeration, I'm sure. I need daylight and dry grass; I need to lie outside and listen to CDs through crackling earphones. I need that perfect mingling of the scents from the pages of an aged book and cut grass. New books are sometimes so clinical in their crisp pages and unsettled ink that lightly smudges and marks your fingertips.
Often I don't even know why I stay up so late. Reading, writing, talking, music; I sabotage my sleeping hours with such ease.