How not to work
No, look, I have to shout my little shout, and then I'll bury my little snout back in my 50 books. I hate writing papers. Why? Because I have nothing paper-length to say about any appropriate topic. I find the form impossible. What I consider serious intellectual work is fragmentary, catenary, open-ended, allusive, recursive, not MLA-formatted, not 16-25 pages in length, not spelled out in plain terms for the idle reader. You're picturing a monstrosity, and I understand this, I do. Work must get done. But nothing deserves these intellectual subdivisions, these pleasant little tracts of Times New Roman 12-point real estate with their 1.25" white picket margins, their aluminum siding hiding Gothic levels of philosophical decay. Oh let us excavate a grotto or renovate a warehouse and there build a new way of living with arts and histories and literatures and sweet heady unfinished symphonies; let us leave these New Developments in Literary Studies to those who work close by. Let the forms live and die!
There. There may be more of that left in my system. I'll keep you... all... posted...
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