I’m not going to Sussex and this didn’t happen.
You can now donate to lowly student who posts infrequently and of varying degrees of evident quality. Appreciate anything for the time that goes into writing. Still have plenty of words left passing through me, I hope. Neo-Thatcherite, Feudo-Capitalism is biting hard.
Hastily written post: Behind the University Admission’s door
Foucault asserts the anomalous pox-marks of the anti-enlightenment against the steady succession of seemingly infinite progress. A bumpy but otherwise good sound-bite. I say people have always been stupid and I am one of them. My name is irrelevant. What matters is that I’m impressionable – an easily led membrane in the trough (or the gutter) open to swirling star field of ideology – constellations, co-ordinated positions of nuance moving further away.
With no stake in no nation state or voice in the cultural dialogue, you must learn how to ‘gut’ lines and learned Latin and Greek phrases from books for university interviews: ‘Move cynically and harmoniously. Like a Japanese Whaler.’ Sage advice. Or not. Implying more than I care to admit I understood and a crash course in how to be marginally more than the sum of your ill-educated parts in a big, deterministic machine on a swerving Tatlin spiral to the bottom.
‘Honestly it’s like you’ve never read Plato’s Protagoras.’
‘No, but he was a heady mix testosterone-fuelled misogyny and fascism, wasn’t he?’ I reply. From the mouth of a serial gazer and infantile adulterer. No, not that. But I wasn’t so virtuous.
Pause. Silent except for the sedate shrill of crows outside the window.
‘What have you been reading?’
‘Oh, I was reading McEwan’s new one, Sweet Tooth on the train down.’ The inflections of Prome are more than a little evident after an unprepared entrance. If only there were a three-day week. That would put the fucking ‘markets’ in their place. This isn’t going super well.
The letter drops silent with intent three days later.