It’s been a fair few days since the inaugural outfit post graced this blog, and the subsequent days left me little opportunity to put together a post of any weight or decency.
The Bank Holiday weekend was lively, to say the least, with Monday afternoon finding me reeking of the remnants of an outing or two. After what could be described as a slightly extensive but necessary nap, I woke to a notably silent house, wallowing in the recent unfamiliarity of my own company. It was a marked difference from the constant chatter of the weekend, but throw a great piece of literature in front of me and I will happily embrace the solitude.
Unfortunately for me, as a student, today was not the day to sink myself into something enjoyable, but rather the day I had to face the only side of my degree that I really do not enjoy:
Even the phrase itself warrants a bleak thought, or four, and understandably so. I’ve always believed that the study of creative subjects sought to indulge the imagination, not dull it with schools of criticism. Upon opening my behemoth of a textbook, the irony was that inside it I found a quote that reflects perfectly how I feel about critical theory:
‘if the quantity of time consumed in writing critiques on the works of others were given to original composition, of whatever kind it might be, it would be much better employed’
Literature, for me, has always allowed for the swelling and sharpening of my own imagination – something which I don’t feel occurs with the study of criticism – and so I sat, pouring over ‘The Death of the Author’, and mourning Easter weekend with a plate-full of pancakes.