Frigging Sorbonne
Have I mentioned that I started my Ph.D in literature this term?
It might have come up. Anyway, I was all set to take a really neat seminar about literary history and survival stories and the bloody university gave Eric a lab (he works there) at the same time. Given that it's four to seven pm, we have no sitter, and frankly, I wouldn't get one, because that's Dominic's bath and bed time. So I took the other seminar, Description of the Image in Art and Literature.
Well.
I enjoy a good pretentious literature discussion as much as the next girl, but the kind of tightly-wound intellectual masturbation that has been assigned as our primary critical text is just the kind of crap that makes me want to spend the rest of my life reading Harlequins. This guy (Philippe Hamon; you have been warned) takes 500 words to say something that could be clearly articulated in 100 or less, uses unneccessarily erudite words, and has writing tics that make me homicidal. I have read the 86 pages twice and I still do not have a competent grasp of what he is trying to say.
Plus, the professor has an irritating tendency to jump from cock to ass (I swear, in passing, that this is a literal translation of a French expression, "sauter du coq a l'âne", that means to speak or write in a disjointed way). If he just had headings that he could follow instead of rambling all over the place, it would be so much easier to understand him. I could ask for clarification, but if I did, I'd be interrupting him every ten minutes.
I am so glad to be back in the academic milieu, and I had a great conversation with my advisor today, but this course is going to cause me endless nightmares, I can tell. PLUS, I'm still replacing someone (who forgot to tell the department head, which made for an interesting chat today), so I teach from 8 to 11 at one place, run around eating and doing homework, have my course at the university from 3 to 7, then whip home so Eric can get to his hockey practice. Today, we had to switch cars, so Dominic didn't get to bed until 8, a totally unheard-of time. Luckily, he was a total angel and I even managed to whip into the grocery store and buy bread. Was I ever glad to get home, remove my clothes (none of which fit anymore) and put on flannel pjs, and come and talk to you guys. I'm grateful for my life, and wouldn't change it, but I am thrilled that I'll be going to bed soon.
*smooches to all*
It might have come up. Anyway, I was all set to take a really neat seminar about literary history and survival stories and the bloody university gave Eric a lab (he works there) at the same time. Given that it's four to seven pm, we have no sitter, and frankly, I wouldn't get one, because that's Dominic's bath and bed time. So I took the other seminar, Description of the Image in Art and Literature.
Well.
I enjoy a good pretentious literature discussion as much as the next girl, but the kind of tightly-wound intellectual masturbation that has been assigned as our primary critical text is just the kind of crap that makes me want to spend the rest of my life reading Harlequins. This guy (Philippe Hamon; you have been warned) takes 500 words to say something that could be clearly articulated in 100 or less, uses unneccessarily erudite words, and has writing tics that make me homicidal. I have read the 86 pages twice and I still do not have a competent grasp of what he is trying to say.
Plus, the professor has an irritating tendency to jump from cock to ass (I swear, in passing, that this is a literal translation of a French expression, "sauter du coq a l'âne", that means to speak or write in a disjointed way). If he just had headings that he could follow instead of rambling all over the place, it would be so much easier to understand him. I could ask for clarification, but if I did, I'd be interrupting him every ten minutes.
I am so glad to be back in the academic milieu, and I had a great conversation with my advisor today, but this course is going to cause me endless nightmares, I can tell. PLUS, I'm still replacing someone (who forgot to tell the department head, which made for an interesting chat today), so I teach from 8 to 11 at one place, run around eating and doing homework, have my course at the university from 3 to 7, then whip home so Eric can get to his hockey practice. Today, we had to switch cars, so Dominic didn't get to bed until 8, a totally unheard-of time. Luckily, he was a total angel and I even managed to whip into the grocery store and buy bread. Was I ever glad to get home, remove my clothes (none of which fit anymore) and put on flannel pjs, and come and talk to you guys. I'm grateful for my life, and wouldn't change it, but I am thrilled that I'll be going to bed soon.
*smooches to all*
posted by Coco at 9:18 p.m.
11 Comments:
*smooch* to Coco for such a hectic day and a bad porn book.
Have yourself a great sleep tonight. *smooch*
*giggle* you said masturbation
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Yay!! Good luck with the PhD! I have to admit, tightly-wound intellectual masturbation seems to come with the territory of grad school (I actually used the phrase "intellectual masturbation" in reference to a fellow graduate student today, before I read this post. I think it must be the secret word of the day.)
Good luck with all of it!! *smoooches*
Okay. I am back. Did you miss me? Sorry I had to delete that up there because it made no sense this morning. I revised it here: (and it still makes no sense, really)
The absolute bane of my (very) short lived PhD career at McGill was Jacques Lacan- which let's face it, is a little too close sounding to Chaka Kahn to be taken seriously. I was always a Barthes girl really. But overall, (and ironically I guess) I found that whole Freanch language scholarship to be one big cluster concept.
Big, bad, boring seminars are all part of the graduate package I guess. You will pull through it, I know you will.
Hockey practice. You Canucks are just too cute.
Mange du pain and fait dor ma chou.
Oh, Monsty. Jacques Lacan bites the big pickle. Barthes at least has a passing sense of humour.
Ph.D at McGill, eh? Fancy schmancy. (Actually, I'm jealous. I am only at this university because it's here.)
And? I slept the worst sleep in the world. Yet life goes on.
*off to local breastfeeding committee meeting, class, student appointments, etc etc*
I have no idea what this whole thing means. Coco is way to smart for me.
Thank you zombie, finally someone I can relate to here. *sigh*
I am convinced that getting into McGill was due to them having to fill a stupid American girl quota. In fact, I may have even checked the stupid american girl box on their application.
I am having coconut crusted haddock for din din.
Mmm. Haddock.
Conner went to bed at *gasp* 9 tonight. We had to visit a friend in the hospital. Of course he was running up and down the halls saying "hi" to all of the people with boo boos.
Maybe he'll sleep til 7 tomorrow.
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