Writing about:
how narrative structure undermines both oral literature and culture

With respect to our essay, anyway.

Actually, with respect to a lot of things. Plans for the Easter break are shaping up, though they will be far less ellaborate than I had originally planned. And next year's living arrangements have been found, at least that's what I'm told, so that's another relief. And plans for the summer are forming, with the possibility of not one, not two, but three visits from people I love! Hurrah!

But what do you care about that? That has nothing to do with anything right now, so let's get back to where we started. All input, no output, remember? Right.

First off, I've been reading a lot of theory these past two weeks in preparation for my essay. This is a new development that arose out of my starting the essay nearly three weeks before it was due, and also to a certain extent out of the fact that my classmates seem to rely heavily on criticism in their work. I never have before, but this essay is looking to be fairly boring, so we'll see if the theory can spice it up a bit. Probably not, but there's nothing wrong with trying. Anyway, the thing is, I've been thinking a lot about the ideas, but I haven't written it out yet. So surely when I finally do, my ideas will be not the coal that they usually are, fueling the fire of my essay's argument, but perfect diamonds formed from the compression of so much theory that my mind is ready to explode from the pressure if I don't get them out quickly. Hurry! Pass me pen and paper! I feel genius coming upon me!

Secondly, I have been engaging in my favourite past-time of late, that of people watching. In first year, this was incredibly easy to do, not only because we all lived in halls, but because classes were so big that surely, of the 500 people in the room with you, at least one of them had caught your interest over breakfast, so you could check up on them. Did the guy who always wears that same sweater make it to class on time after getting to the cereal table so late? Hey, good for him! Way to hussle! Did the girl who ate waffles in her pink fluffy pyjama bottoms and tiny t-shirt get changed before coming to class? No? Typical. Because, of course, if the dining hall isn't considered "public", why should the classroom be? Hey, just make yourself at home, girlie!

Where was I going with that? Oh right.

Anyway, people watching got more difficult after first year because people moved into houses and either stopped showing up for class, or classes got to be intimidatingly tiny. Which is why yesterday was such a great day for me, past-time-wise. I spent it mostly in the library, beside the fourth floor reserve books, so I got to see lots of the cool English Lit kids go in and out looking at the same books, and make quick judgements based on the titles they carried away. The girls with the floppy blonde ponytails? Always with books about feminist theory, or the woman in literature. The cool boys, the boys I would be friends with given the choice? Always go for the more device-oriented books, things like structure or comparative criticism. And the super-cool kids, the kids who look like they're too smart to still be taking classes, always take the ideology-based titles. Yikes.

After that, I met my flatmate in front of the union at Bristo Square to go see the Hans Blix lecture. And oh! Is that was he looks like? I had no idea. Aw, so cute, so Swedish, so bald... We got seats in the balcony, and even though they were really great seats, I could not make out his face. The talk was good, more an explanation of what happened than a real lecture, but the greatest part was the question period. Before we were all let in, there were quite a few peace protesters handing out badges and pamphlets and generally making a nuisance of themsleves while I was trying to get my freezing cold self into the building. I didn't think much of them when I was outside, but during the question period they really took over. Someone asked him if he thought that the invasion wouldn't have happened had he been more vocal about the lack of evidence. He answered the question kindly and with grace, but it struck me that this kind of question must be what he's going to hear for the rest of his public career. Everywhere he goes from now on, he's going to get "End The Occupation!" types who go to his appearances to pester him rather than to listen to what he says. So it sucks to be Hans Blix, but it also sucks to be a protester, doesn't it? Because if you can't listen to other people's positions, if you argue only for the sake of hearing your own views, then who's going to follow you? The questions were rude, unintelligent, and unkind, and I felt no sympathy for the protesters outside by the time I left. Those cute little badges with the crossed out bombs? Keep them away from me, jerks.

Besides, I'm not sure the "occupation" should end. If they went in and toppled the established government, shouldn't they at least stay until they can set up a new, stable one? And aren't protesters who claim humanitarian inspiration a little bit untrustworthy when they use the monthly cost of the occupation (£200,000, so they say) as a reason to leave proving themselves not a little selfish? Like, forget those guys over there who just got out from under a spirit-crushing regime, what about us here in this democratic haven? Seems strange to me. We're all hypocrites, and I don't know who to hate more.

But, see? Everything's connected. This is exactly what I'm arguing in my essay. My inquisitive narrative is undercutting my voiced opinions, and so makes you wonder what I really think, if you can really trust me or not. But can you really trust anyone? Can you even trust yourself and your own views?

What an uncertain world we live in! Quick, get the comics and a flashlight, we'll hide under my duvet until it's not so scary out there anymore.

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