Wit & Whim

Last night I completed a staggering feat. I started working on a research paper in the afternoon, and turned it in early the next morning. Granted, my subject knowledge was already exceedingly strong, and I already knew the sources from which I wanted to draw my support, but it was still a grim battle with fatigue to churn out such a staggering work of astute comparative analysis. One never really realizes how much church there is during holy week, until the rest of one's time has been greedily gobbled by work and homework. Only in retrospect can I see the crunch, I did not even think of it at the time, and I was so concerned with other matters, that the paper sort of snuck up on me. It does not make matters easier that Bartky does not believe in giving a month's notice, as he realizes the class will procrastinate the first to weeks anyway. So he elects to procrastinate for us, and gives us the paper without any extra procrastination time. The result is that today I am tired. F

I joined battle with half a classroom today. I had one ally to my name, but as it was Scott, who is TA for two professors, I felt like I was in good company. The topic that we were engaging was Nuremburg, and whether or not it was a case of victor's justice, or if it was indeed a fair and just trial. Scott and I both pointed out a massive inconsistency in the trial. The Leaders of Soviet Russia were as guilty, if not more guilty, of every charge brought against the Nazi leadership by the London Charter than were the Nazis. If you look at the death tolls, the simple fact is that Stalin was more deadly, and he did not confine himself to dissidents, Jews, and "defective" people. The Soviets went after every cultural and ethnic anomaly; the cossacks--or anyone else with Tatar, Turk, or Alan blood--were also subject to genocide. Why were Russian judges sitting to convict Nazis of these atrocities? Nuremburg was victor's justice; it was selective justice. We dropped the at

I don't believe I can possibly impress upon the reader the extent of my love for rain. It is not just the delight of having the myriad droning, bleating, sounds of the world covered over in the gentle wash and echo of the rain. Nor is it the sight of the tastelessly and scantily clad masses scurrying for cover as they shiver. Nor is it even the pungent and oddly cheering wormsmell and greenness that blot out all the unpleasant smells, which the constant passing of thirteen-thousand people and their jalopies leaves behind. One would not have the whole of it, even if one were to add to the first three pleasures, the delight which comes from the markedly pleasant sensation of rain on the face...I need hardly get started on the difference wrought by the release of days of pressure built up in the joints. I do not much care for cloudy days, but I love a rainy day; thunderstorms are even better. I never think more clearly than when I am walking, and the rain only serves to aid this effec

Well. It is a sunny day outside, warm, clear, with hint of a cool breeze to drive away any threats of humidity. The masses have affected an ungainly waddle, which an expert on the ground judged to be the result of the return of the flip-flop. Student elections are in session, and students only vote if there is free food to go with the vote. The classroom atmosphere has changed, the eager beginnings and smooth mid-semester stride are long since passed. Attitudes range between those who have taken on an almost inhuman intensity, and those who just seem glazed over and sleepy. It is in this intellectual climate that we began on Marx. By the end of the lesson, Bartky actually had some of the students nodding along, agreeing with the precepts. To those of us who had a few minutes to linger, he confided that sections on Marx always end up with him getting some newly converted Marxists coming to his office, and that it is always necessary to correct them. If you are someone for whom the Metap