Recent collections were funny. Funny, strange, bizarre, wierd, abnormal.
Previous collections were, panic aside, relatively straightforward affairs. I went it, laid a torrent of resplendent verbiage down on the paper, and handed it in. The stuff I wrote was uniformly ambiguous, a layer of impenetrable yet fragrant smoke intended to obscure the flagrant gaps of knowledge that I never quite managed to seal despite days of intensive study. So it was that, for instance, my history essay on the foreign policy of Britain in the eighteenth century had a grand total of 2 dates, 4 names, and about 10 000 euphemisms of various shapes and sizes, while my politics paper on the Supreme Court of the United States was composed solely of fantastically-phrased facts without figures.
The point was, though, that the cloying musk of the written smokescreen and the bombasticity of the language employed was in fact able to completely compensate for shameless ignorance, even though they could not merit a first-class. Thus the resulting grades were as devoid of variance as the essays themselves were deprived of detail and clear of clarity. 2.1, 2.1, 2.1, 2.1, 2.1, 2.1, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. And I would be satisfied with that, content to lose the battle in preparation to win the war, happy to trade immediate gain for ultimate glory.
But these latest collections were not in keeping with the plan. Whilst the history paper on Victorian Britain was a sterling compendium of numbers and nuances, so much so that the customary smokescreen was not even necessary, my political theory paper was so lacking in even basic sentence construction that I shuddered to write my own name at the top of the paper when the test ended. It will be interesting to see the results of this round. Nonetheless I still think it a passable situation overall, and give thanks to God for that.
It is testament to the singular focus of study that has consumed my life that my thinking is now almost uni-dimensional. Academia has inundated my being, permeating my every pore and perception.
Thankfully I have managed to retain some vague awareness of what is happening in The World Beyond Oxford. The latest Israeli war. The latest Russian energy crisis. The biggest tattoo exhibition back home. The continuing decline and fall of the failing Arsenal. The conclusion of the pseudo-epic Red Cliff. The scandal of Zhang Ziyi. All very interesting, but all too distant for my attention. Awareness, yes, but not attention.
The chaps in college are organising a trip to Oslo in two months' time, and my buddy in the Soc has planned a trip to Berlin the week after that. I look forward to these- and hope that the bloody climate will change for the better soon.
On a random note, I found failblog.org videos on Youtube. Some were lame, some were inhumane, but there were those that were worth watching.
Exclusive Nightclub Fail, Reporter Fail, Beach Invasion Fail, Animal Identification Fail, Masculinity Fail.
Good stuff, but watch too much and the Funny turns rancid. At least I now know why TK keeps going "Dates Fail!" whenever I give him the wrong answer to questions such as when was the Union with Scotland enacted or when did George III die.
Back to the meat grinder. Freaking presentation partners have read all 5 books already. I am feeling distinctly uncomfortable. And how do political theorists and historians manage to reduce the Uber-cool Force that is Nationalism to a series of technicalities? The fools have destroyed the romance and passion of the Power! The Power of Dreams! The Dreams of Glory, of Empire and of Destiny!
Before I launch into another rendition of Deustchland Uber Alles or The Unbreakable Union, I must get going.
Coldplay never fails. NEVER.
