September 14th, 2001



I just sat through my first class since the disaster. In the wake of all this, Foucault and his petty insistence that "the author does not exist" seem, for lack of a better word, stupid. Of *course* the author exists. What's the point of literary theory -- denying the obvious? My life's work is beginning to seem more and more like a joke. I can't imagine spending forty years preaching the virtues of Foucault and his no-grip-on-reality cronies. Dropping out to write romance novels becomes more and more appealing.

I'm also upset because I see people determined to continue with pettiness and squabbling which we should have learned isn't important. The drama I encounter is getting to be more than even a gossip like me can care about. On the other hand, one of my friends just showed that he can call a spade a spade. Way to go, Jason.
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