Jumping through hoops at a break-neck speed...
It would happen that one structures one's life around a series of events, constructions that mark passage, that give meaning through their re-iteration. Yesterday, finally, I waltzed my way through one such rite, and today? I feel just a little bit empty.
There is a machine, or a voice, or a little red devil with his bifurcated staff prodding that drives me. Me and many others, I would imagine. I work and work, and my stomach tightens, and my breathing grows fast and I dig my heels into the dirt. I was built as a work horse, there is no denying it. But I also enjoy the show. There must be some masochistic pleasure in the creation of false deadlines, and rituals of acceptance. I must like to feel my entrails quivering.
My voice did not wobble, not for this exam. I was as prepared to face my demons as ever. Prepared to show my superiors that I can read books, and understand them. That I, too, can find the pleasure in the text. Because, ultimately, what else is there? We who write, or study literature, can't claim to be doing anything more than a self-referential narcissistic dance. Teaching? That is another beast, which shall remain sleeping. I wonder to myself, what is it that we do? The study of literature can, and does, seems so useless, in any real way, and yet, despite its nebulous quality, and its lack of concrete application in a capitalist productive system (which the US academy, unfortunately, purports to mirror, but rather, I would say, deforms in an esperpentic reflection), the study of literature is perhaps the most widely applicable of human gnoseological endeavors because anything can be read and interpreted.
That said, I still don't pretend to have a career path aimed for glory, I am fully aware that in my own way, I am a pleasure seeker, that seeks to justify her pleasure in the work that she does, even if it means, sometimes, performing rituals in which she does not fully believe or trust.
So there it is. I am now a doctoral candidate. All the stress and worry, all the nervous hand-wringing, all the hours of reading and organizing and re-writing have been acknowledged, at least enough so that I can lean back, take a deep breath, and start all over again.
There is a machine, or a voice, or a little red devil with his bifurcated staff prodding that drives me. Me and many others, I would imagine. I work and work, and my stomach tightens, and my breathing grows fast and I dig my heels into the dirt. I was built as a work horse, there is no denying it. But I also enjoy the show. There must be some masochistic pleasure in the creation of false deadlines, and rituals of acceptance. I must like to feel my entrails quivering.
My voice did not wobble, not for this exam. I was as prepared to face my demons as ever. Prepared to show my superiors that I can read books, and understand them. That I, too, can find the pleasure in the text. Because, ultimately, what else is there? We who write, or study literature, can't claim to be doing anything more than a self-referential narcissistic dance. Teaching? That is another beast, which shall remain sleeping. I wonder to myself, what is it that we do? The study of literature can, and does, seems so useless, in any real way, and yet, despite its nebulous quality, and its lack of concrete application in a capitalist productive system (which the US academy, unfortunately, purports to mirror, but rather, I would say, deforms in an esperpentic reflection), the study of literature is perhaps the most widely applicable of human gnoseological endeavors because anything can be read and interpreted.
That said, I still don't pretend to have a career path aimed for glory, I am fully aware that in my own way, I am a pleasure seeker, that seeks to justify her pleasure in the work that she does, even if it means, sometimes, performing rituals in which she does not fully believe or trust.
So there it is. I am now a doctoral candidate. All the stress and worry, all the nervous hand-wringing, all the hours of reading and organizing and re-writing have been acknowledged, at least enough so that I can lean back, take a deep breath, and start all over again.
posted by ilana at 8:59 a.m.
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