you go too far, marlowe.
those are harsh words to throw at a man. especially when he's walking out of your bedroom.
lost in the meritocracy
the need to finesse my ignorance through suck trickery - honourable trickery to my mind, but not to other minds, perhaps - left me feeling hollow and vaguely haunted. seeking security in numbers, i sought out the company of other frauds. we recognised one another instantly. we toted around books by roland barthes, hans-georg gadamer, and walter benjamin. we spoke of ‘playfulness’ and ‘textuality’ and concluded before we’d read even a hundredth of it that that western canon was ‘illegitimate’, a veiled expression of powerful group interests that it was our duty to subvert. in our rush to adopt the latest attitudes and please the younger and hipper of our instructors - the ones who drank with us at the nassau street bars and played the clash on the tape decks of their toyotas as their hands crpt up our pants and skirts- we skipped straight from ignorance to revisionism, deconstructing a body of literary knowledge that we’d never constructed in the first place.
- lost in the meritocracy, walter kirn.
ah, the earnestness of youth.
