Back in 10th grade, I had this crazy English teacher named Eugene
Trimboli. He had an obsession with leather, liked the color purple,
would train with the HS wrestling team, and held a longstanding grudge
against his parents for naming him Eugene and giving him the initials
E.T.
He believed very strongly that more time always equaled
better writing. He had this crazy habit of telling us a paper was due
on Monday, then on Monday telling us that anyone who had nothing to
hand in would be getting zeros and anyone who had a finished paper had
another 3days to work on it. This would happen maybe three or four
times per paper. It got us into the habit of proofreading and rewriting
things. And to this day, his mantra holds true for me: more time=better
writing.
I've told a couple people that out of my 6 graduate
program applications, the first will probably be the weakest and the
last will likely be the strongest. I thought I was lucky that my two
top picks were due third and fourth, that the first two applications
due were for schools that I only kind of wanted to get into. Sigh. If
only my top picks were the last two due.
Turns out, today,
reviewing my application materials for the fourth time, I found three
more typos (this time in the portfolio section). Well, at least I
caught it before the RISD app went out. Here's to hoping that there
aren't any more lingering errors. With any luck, the remaining
improvements that are bound to happen before I send out the final app
will be minor...
It's a little disappointing when viewed next to the respective collections from 2007 and 2006, but here's a slideshow of my best photos taken in 2008...
Standing in the M's of the fiction section, I wondered if Haruki Murakami would be over my head. I don't remember if it was something I read or if it was just a silly assumption of mine that someone famous for writing a book called Kafka on the Shore would be chanelling the Kafka of Metamorphosis.
To this day, I still can't forgive Franz for forcing me to read about an overgrown cochroach who had enough sense to commit suicide, but not enough balls to get it over with in fewer chapters . So it was with great trepidation that I purchased Norwegian Wood on a whim earlier this year. Likened by some (maligned by others) to a crossover album that brings an unkown indie act to the masses, Norwegian Wood was the best possible place I could have hoped to start my Murakami journey. My fear of not being able to relate, or of not being able to comprehend, evaporated within pages. In fact, the first few pages reverberated so deeply that I had to put the thing down, fearing the story could not sustain that level of brilliant clarity and beauty for much longer and would be destined to dissapoint me. I sat with the closed book in my lap and thought to myself, if I stop here, this will have been the most amazing short story I have ever read.
I stared down at the book and felt like crying. Murakami had struck a nerve and I had to keep going. I had to know how the story ends. That day, I read the best short story ever when I finished that first chapter. Later, I read the best novella ever when I finished the first section of the book. When I was all done, it turns out that I had my favorite book ever resting in my hands.
