Saturday, February 28, 2009
On Reading Montaigne
When reading "Of Books" I was thinking the whole time "Now I know this is the "Father of the Essay" but I've read better"(sorry to all his big time fans). Now I suppose they give him this title not for being the best, but being the first. The story had a LOT of words I couldn't pronounce and many more I was lost in meaning.Context clues did help and I was able to figure them out, but I feel as though it was too late, I had been turned off. When reading "Of a Monstrous Child" I was thinking that this man has a thing for staring off his titles in "Of". I didn't get this essay at all, if you can call it that. If was barely two pages of a description. But to get on a positive note, the language was much better and I was starting to feel hope. But all was lost again on "On Some Verses of Virgil". Yay, he didn't use "Of" is what I first thought. To be honest, I didn't even make it through the story. I did like the first paragraph and the first sentence was one of thew best I thought it the book, "To the extent that useful thoughts are fuller and more solid, they are also more absorbing and more troublesome." Thia statement is so true. I apologize for being so negative, it just must be the mood I am in. I will try to read these again on a better night and see if my opinion changes. I'll let you know....
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
B-B-Q Spaghetti
Trisha Vogan
R.W.Adv.Essays
Dr. Benton
Personal Essay
B-B-Q Spaghetti
It is an often occurrence. Every time he comes home it’s to be expected. My father has always worked for jobs where he would be gone for days, weeks, months at a time. He loves to cook and never gets to while he’s on the road, or drink for that matter; so the first day he arrives home expect a meal, but never ordinary, something he creates in his intoxicated mind. Inebriated as he often is at home, these creations sound and smell good to him, however, are most always farthest from the truth to the rest of us. It would not be out of the ordinary for myself to have friends over, for we never quite knew when he would arrive, and he preferred it this way. All my friends can attest to the many nights of meals never quite heard of and taste buds not quite ready for. The story I’m about to tell, however, luckily, it was just the family at home that night. I arrived home with my little brother and my stomach dropped as soon as I saw his truck, I still get the same feeling to this day when I see a truck like his. First let me tell you a little about this man they call my father and the reason he makes my stomach drop.
My father is the oldest of three. His mother, my grandmother, was always sick so my dad had to learn to cook to feed his father and brothers, or they would starve. As he learned to cook he found that he also enjoyed it and it soon became a hobby. He joined the army as soon as he could and took off to Germany. Now my father is not a gentle man, he’s not someone you can get close to, share thoughts or feelings, or weakness. He has been diagnosed with Bi-Polar disease and he has the greatest love for alcohol, which we come from a LONG line of alcoholics, so it makes sense. But these two together make for a lethal, if not deadly, combination. My father was also a victim of abuse and has extreme anger issues that he just doesn’t know how to deal with. He has put one of his brothers in a coma, luckily he did come out of it, but they still haven’t spoken since. My father has been in jail several times, for reasons that would make you squirm in your seat. He has had many DUI’s and has had to pay many fines for unspeakable crimes. I tell you all this to give you some insight. This is not the normal loving father making his doting family a nice dinner; this is a drunken man fooling around, making messes in the kitchen.
Now usually his meals are not too shabby, in fact he tends to be a pretty good cook. The dinner that sticks most out in my mind would be the B-B-Q Spaghetti fiasco. I can remember that night as clearly as if it were last night. I pulled into our driveway coming home from school. It was me and my brother, Brent, who is six years younger than myself. I saw his truck, the big black bull, and my stomach dropped…he was home. A sick feeling waved over me and I just knew all my plans for the afternoon would have to vanish. My brother on the other hand, his face lit up with excitement. He has different feelings than I do toward my father. He has seen a different person and was too young to realize what our father really was. We got out of the car, and as I was taking my sweet time, Brent ran to the door. I said a prayer as I walked to the door, hoping my mom wouldn’t be in tears by the time I got to her. When I got to the door I opened it and my nostrils were met by an unfamiliar and not a practically enticing fragrance.
I stepped into the house and saw the big screen was on the music channel, playing some 80’s song, and the volume was up full blast….”yep, he’s drunk”, I thought to myself. I walked in further into the kitchen to see the refrigerator door wide open and almost completely empty inside. On the counter were an empty bottle of KC Masterpiece Original Barbecue Sauce, and other empty bottles of Tabasco and Louisiana Hot Sauce, along with half empty bottles of ketchup, relish, and soy sauce. I saw many other condiments but didn’t take a good look at the rest, though there were a lot. The table was just as cluttered with other items taken from the refrigerator. You could smell the tension on the room, along with the pot of boiling water and beer. My father stood there, dancing to his music and splashing this mystery sauce everywhere. There stood a 20 pack of Coors Light at his feet, his Silver Bullet.
My little brother ran up to him, so thrilled upon his arrival, and wrapped his arms around my father’s waist. My dad was quick to turn around with a sour look upon his face. “Brent, what are you doing, can’t you see I’m cooking, it’s hot!” he screamed at my brother. The temperature was hot in the room and my dads temper was too. Brent scurried away like a wounded puppy and that’s when he spotted me. I swallowed the lump that had been caught in my throat and forced a smile. “Hi”, I said, meek and shy, trying my best not to make him mad. I was relieved when he smiled. My dad’s smile could brighten a room, for they were rare and hard to come by. He asked me to come take a taste of his special “B-B-Q Spaghetti”. I walked slowly, hoping he would change his mind. If this stuff tasted anywhere close to how it smelt I had to do I could to keep from throwing up. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as he lowered the spatula to my mouth. The taste was something I’d never tasted before, something that didn’t belong. Nothing went together and it was as if I was swallowing oil and water, it did not taste good. As the warm goo slide down my throat I opened my eyes and forced a smile. “Mmmmmmm that was good”, I lied. Then came the entourage of questions, as the meals always did. See my father is a perfectionist, at least when it comes to his food, and he wanted us to bow down to it, to appreciate every morsel and to never quit complementing him and his cuisine. In reply to his many questions, “What does it need? What is it missing? What could make it better? What would be a good side dish with it? Does it need more salt, more pepper?” My answer to everything was yes, it was amazing, no one could make it better, and I love it! I had to say it in a way that he bought it. If it came off sarcastic bad things would happen. I was not the only one he expected this from, it had to come from all of us: My mom, my sister, me, and my brother.
He bought it, so it was time to clean his mess and set the table. I remember when he announced its completion; we all looked at each other in fear. We all had our designated spots and sat there, while my mother poured everyone’s drink. Thank God we would have something to wash this awful stuff down. He set the boiling pot of brown liquid in front of me and the pot of noodles beside it. The sauce looked like boiling milk chocolate, but tasted nothing close to that. The sauce mixed with the mushy noodles, they were overcooked, was a sight and smell to behold. The family was reluctant to dig in, everyone except my brother, who had no reservations about the meal, my dad had made it so it must be good, was good enough to him. My dad was on to us, so he slammed his fists onto the table and jumped up. He said if we didn’t want to eat it then don’t. Don’t appreciate him and all he’s done, don’t be thankful we have food on the table when many a night he and his family didn’t. It was the same ole’ spill that we don’t care for or appreciate anything from him or that he does. We apologized and he cooled off. We all got small portions and ate quickly, saying how full we were and thanked him for such a delectable meal. That triggered something in him that we like to call the “Hulk Within”. He grabbed our couch and threw it on its back, then turned toward us and punched the wall, leaving a fist size hole in it. His knuckles were bleeding and he came back to the table, face red. My mom started to cry, which happens at least twice every time my dad comes home; my brother than got second, in fear that it was him that set my father off. I looked my dad straight in the eyes and pushed my seat back. I told him I was going to my room, so I got up and did just that, not looking back.
I locked my door behind me and turned on the light. I turned on my CD player and put in my Zoë Girl CD, a girl Christian music group, and reached for my bible on the floor beside my bed. Tears welled up in my eyes and I soon heard a knock on the door. It was my sister and mom at the door, telling me my father had passed out on the other couch, the on that hadn’t been flipped over, and that they wanted to be with me in my room. My mom apologized, as she always does, and my sister and I just rolled our eyes, as we always do. We prayed together and soon parted ways to get ready for bed. My dad left that next morning before I even got up for school and it would be another month before we’d see him again. I was relieved.
I recall this story not for the violent details or harsh actions, but for the spaghetti. As odd as that sounds that is what I remember most from that night. His outbursts and violent behavior were a norm, and still are. I remember planning my wedding and debating whether or not I wanted him to walk me down the isle or even be present. My father is who he is and I only pray he changes before he dies. I love him very much and thank him, for if he wasn’t who he is I wouldn’t be who I am today. I have many memories and stories to tell about him, but they’ll have to wait until another day, but until then we’ll always have B-B-Q Spaghetti.
R.W.Adv.Essays
Dr. Benton
Personal Essay
B-B-Q Spaghetti
It is an often occurrence. Every time he comes home it’s to be expected. My father has always worked for jobs where he would be gone for days, weeks, months at a time. He loves to cook and never gets to while he’s on the road, or drink for that matter; so the first day he arrives home expect a meal, but never ordinary, something he creates in his intoxicated mind. Inebriated as he often is at home, these creations sound and smell good to him, however, are most always farthest from the truth to the rest of us. It would not be out of the ordinary for myself to have friends over, for we never quite knew when he would arrive, and he preferred it this way. All my friends can attest to the many nights of meals never quite heard of and taste buds not quite ready for. The story I’m about to tell, however, luckily, it was just the family at home that night. I arrived home with my little brother and my stomach dropped as soon as I saw his truck, I still get the same feeling to this day when I see a truck like his. First let me tell you a little about this man they call my father and the reason he makes my stomach drop.
My father is the oldest of three. His mother, my grandmother, was always sick so my dad had to learn to cook to feed his father and brothers, or they would starve. As he learned to cook he found that he also enjoyed it and it soon became a hobby. He joined the army as soon as he could and took off to Germany. Now my father is not a gentle man, he’s not someone you can get close to, share thoughts or feelings, or weakness. He has been diagnosed with Bi-Polar disease and he has the greatest love for alcohol, which we come from a LONG line of alcoholics, so it makes sense. But these two together make for a lethal, if not deadly, combination. My father was also a victim of abuse and has extreme anger issues that he just doesn’t know how to deal with. He has put one of his brothers in a coma, luckily he did come out of it, but they still haven’t spoken since. My father has been in jail several times, for reasons that would make you squirm in your seat. He has had many DUI’s and has had to pay many fines for unspeakable crimes. I tell you all this to give you some insight. This is not the normal loving father making his doting family a nice dinner; this is a drunken man fooling around, making messes in the kitchen.
Now usually his meals are not too shabby, in fact he tends to be a pretty good cook. The dinner that sticks most out in my mind would be the B-B-Q Spaghetti fiasco. I can remember that night as clearly as if it were last night. I pulled into our driveway coming home from school. It was me and my brother, Brent, who is six years younger than myself. I saw his truck, the big black bull, and my stomach dropped…he was home. A sick feeling waved over me and I just knew all my plans for the afternoon would have to vanish. My brother on the other hand, his face lit up with excitement. He has different feelings than I do toward my father. He has seen a different person and was too young to realize what our father really was. We got out of the car, and as I was taking my sweet time, Brent ran to the door. I said a prayer as I walked to the door, hoping my mom wouldn’t be in tears by the time I got to her. When I got to the door I opened it and my nostrils were met by an unfamiliar and not a practically enticing fragrance.
I stepped into the house and saw the big screen was on the music channel, playing some 80’s song, and the volume was up full blast….”yep, he’s drunk”, I thought to myself. I walked in further into the kitchen to see the refrigerator door wide open and almost completely empty inside. On the counter were an empty bottle of KC Masterpiece Original Barbecue Sauce, and other empty bottles of Tabasco and Louisiana Hot Sauce, along with half empty bottles of ketchup, relish, and soy sauce. I saw many other condiments but didn’t take a good look at the rest, though there were a lot. The table was just as cluttered with other items taken from the refrigerator. You could smell the tension on the room, along with the pot of boiling water and beer. My father stood there, dancing to his music and splashing this mystery sauce everywhere. There stood a 20 pack of Coors Light at his feet, his Silver Bullet.
My little brother ran up to him, so thrilled upon his arrival, and wrapped his arms around my father’s waist. My dad was quick to turn around with a sour look upon his face. “Brent, what are you doing, can’t you see I’m cooking, it’s hot!” he screamed at my brother. The temperature was hot in the room and my dads temper was too. Brent scurried away like a wounded puppy and that’s when he spotted me. I swallowed the lump that had been caught in my throat and forced a smile. “Hi”, I said, meek and shy, trying my best not to make him mad. I was relieved when he smiled. My dad’s smile could brighten a room, for they were rare and hard to come by. He asked me to come take a taste of his special “B-B-Q Spaghetti”. I walked slowly, hoping he would change his mind. If this stuff tasted anywhere close to how it smelt I had to do I could to keep from throwing up. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as he lowered the spatula to my mouth. The taste was something I’d never tasted before, something that didn’t belong. Nothing went together and it was as if I was swallowing oil and water, it did not taste good. As the warm goo slide down my throat I opened my eyes and forced a smile. “Mmmmmmm that was good”, I lied. Then came the entourage of questions, as the meals always did. See my father is a perfectionist, at least when it comes to his food, and he wanted us to bow down to it, to appreciate every morsel and to never quit complementing him and his cuisine. In reply to his many questions, “What does it need? What is it missing? What could make it better? What would be a good side dish with it? Does it need more salt, more pepper?” My answer to everything was yes, it was amazing, no one could make it better, and I love it! I had to say it in a way that he bought it. If it came off sarcastic bad things would happen. I was not the only one he expected this from, it had to come from all of us: My mom, my sister, me, and my brother.
He bought it, so it was time to clean his mess and set the table. I remember when he announced its completion; we all looked at each other in fear. We all had our designated spots and sat there, while my mother poured everyone’s drink. Thank God we would have something to wash this awful stuff down. He set the boiling pot of brown liquid in front of me and the pot of noodles beside it. The sauce looked like boiling milk chocolate, but tasted nothing close to that. The sauce mixed with the mushy noodles, they were overcooked, was a sight and smell to behold. The family was reluctant to dig in, everyone except my brother, who had no reservations about the meal, my dad had made it so it must be good, was good enough to him. My dad was on to us, so he slammed his fists onto the table and jumped up. He said if we didn’t want to eat it then don’t. Don’t appreciate him and all he’s done, don’t be thankful we have food on the table when many a night he and his family didn’t. It was the same ole’ spill that we don’t care for or appreciate anything from him or that he does. We apologized and he cooled off. We all got small portions and ate quickly, saying how full we were and thanked him for such a delectable meal. That triggered something in him that we like to call the “Hulk Within”. He grabbed our couch and threw it on its back, then turned toward us and punched the wall, leaving a fist size hole in it. His knuckles were bleeding and he came back to the table, face red. My mom started to cry, which happens at least twice every time my dad comes home; my brother than got second, in fear that it was him that set my father off. I looked my dad straight in the eyes and pushed my seat back. I told him I was going to my room, so I got up and did just that, not looking back.
I locked my door behind me and turned on the light. I turned on my CD player and put in my Zoë Girl CD, a girl Christian music group, and reached for my bible on the floor beside my bed. Tears welled up in my eyes and I soon heard a knock on the door. It was my sister and mom at the door, telling me my father had passed out on the other couch, the on that hadn’t been flipped over, and that they wanted to be with me in my room. My mom apologized, as she always does, and my sister and I just rolled our eyes, as we always do. We prayed together and soon parted ways to get ready for bed. My dad left that next morning before I even got up for school and it would be another month before we’d see him again. I was relieved.
I recall this story not for the violent details or harsh actions, but for the spaghetti. As odd as that sounds that is what I remember most from that night. His outbursts and violent behavior were a norm, and still are. I remember planning my wedding and debating whether or not I wanted him to walk me down the isle or even be present. My father is who he is and I only pray he changes before he dies. I love him very much and thank him, for if he wasn’t who he is I wouldn’t be who I am today. I have many memories and stories to tell about him, but they’ll have to wait until another day, but until then we’ll always have B-B-Q Spaghetti.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
5 PaRaGrApHs
It was a stormy Friday night, nothing extremely out of the ordinary. Neither one of us knew what that night would hold, or how much we would have changed. I can still smell the buttery scent of popcorn popping in the microwave and hear the fizz releasing from the freshly opened bottle of coke. Looking through the stack of movies on the side table and hearing the faint voice of my sister on the phone I finally decided on one and called on her to join me in the living room. This would be the beginning of a night we would not soon forget. (This would be considered a Cheek and Irony essay)
Everyone has a secret. Everyone has a dark place, a place they like to keep hidden from the world. It wasn’t until I realized how much this dark place would affect my future when I finally started to acknowledge its presence and deal with it. I always thought I would just leave, go to college and forget that part of me, that it would just disappear, and leave me be. But in college is when I realized that everyone had secrets, everyone had darkness within. My first year there would leave an everlasting impression and I would go on a different person. It all started with the secrets….the darkness. (This would be considered The Past, the Local, and the Melancholy and Honesty, Confession, and Privacy kind of essays)
Going through hard times is part of life, it’s inevitable, but when it involves family the stakes seem to be higher. Family is supposed to be there when hard times fall upon us, not the reason for it. Where do we go, what do we do? It all started before I was born, but somehow the past affected my future and how I would go on to view things in life and the person I was to become. The experiences I have had have had indeed helped me to become strong and independent, but sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. His name is Will, and here is my story. (This would be considered the same as above)
I opened the door to the odor of beer, water boiling, and a combination I just wasn’t familiar with. You could smell the tension. I heard pans clinging and my mother and father speaking loudly in the kitchen. I made my way to the kitchen where all the racket and odor was coming from and saw the refrigerator door was open, but inside it was empty. All the condiments and everything else were laying out on the table and counter tops. A twenty pack stood by my father’s feet and it appeared I had just walked in on an argument. Dinner was cooking, but I knew so much more than that was brewing up in that kitchen and I really didn’t want to be there to see it boil over. (This is Cheek and Irony)
We heard a knock on the door. We all four looked at each other in excitement. Who could it be, we hadn’t meant that many people just yet. It was our first day on campus and we were all moving in and getting settled. None of us knew each other and we were having fun just getting to do just that. When we heard the knocking we all looked around to see who was going to get up to answer the door. One of the roommates, Lora, did and we were not disappointed. Two rather handsome boys walked in and introduced themselves. “Hello, I’m Josiah and this is my roommate Dustin. We were just walking by and heard someone knocking at us through the window so we thought we would come up and say hi”. We all talked for a while and got to know each other but who would have thought I was going to marry one of these boys someday. (This is a little of all of them, except Quotation and the Uses of Learning)
It was a stormy Friday night, nothing extremely out of the ordinary. Neither one of us knew what that night would hold, or how much we would have changed. I can still smell the buttery scent of popcorn popping in the microwave and hear the fizz releasing from the freshly opened bottle of coke. Looking through the stack of movies on the side table and hearing the faint voice of my sister on the phone I finally decided on one and called on her to join me in the living room. This would be the beginning of a night we would not soon forget. (This would be considered a Cheek and Irony essay)
Everyone has a secret. Everyone has a dark place, a place they like to keep hidden from the world. It wasn’t until I realized how much this dark place would affect my future when I finally started to acknowledge its presence and deal with it. I always thought I would just leave, go to college and forget that part of me, that it would just disappear, and leave me be. But in college is when I realized that everyone had secrets, everyone had darkness within. My first year there would leave an everlasting impression and I would go on a different person. It all started with the secrets….the darkness. (This would be considered The Past, the Local, and the Melancholy and Honesty, Confession, and Privacy kind of essays)
Going through hard times is part of life, it’s inevitable, but when it involves family the stakes seem to be higher. Family is supposed to be there when hard times fall upon us, not the reason for it. Where do we go, what do we do? It all started before I was born, but somehow the past affected my future and how I would go on to view things in life and the person I was to become. The experiences I have had have had indeed helped me to become strong and independent, but sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. His name is Will, and here is my story. (This would be considered the same as above)
I opened the door to the odor of beer, water boiling, and a combination I just wasn’t familiar with. You could smell the tension. I heard pans clinging and my mother and father speaking loudly in the kitchen. I made my way to the kitchen where all the racket and odor was coming from and saw the refrigerator door was open, but inside it was empty. All the condiments and everything else were laying out on the table and counter tops. A twenty pack stood by my father’s feet and it appeared I had just walked in on an argument. Dinner was cooking, but I knew so much more than that was brewing up in that kitchen and I really didn’t want to be there to see it boil over. (This is Cheek and Irony)
We heard a knock on the door. We all four looked at each other in excitement. Who could it be, we hadn’t meant that many people just yet. It was our first day on campus and we were all moving in and getting settled. None of us knew each other and we were having fun just getting to do just that. When we heard the knocking we all looked around to see who was going to get up to answer the door. One of the roommates, Lora, did and we were not disappointed. Two rather handsome boys walked in and introduced themselves. “Hello, I’m Josiah and this is my roommate Dustin. We were just walking by and heard someone knocking at us through the window so we thought we would come up and say hi”. We all talked for a while and got to know each other but who would have thought I was going to marry one of these boys someday. (This is a little of all of them, except Quotation and the Uses of Learning)
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Vocabulary Expansion
SO FAR.....
1) RIOTOUS--1. (of an act) characterized by or of the nature of rioting or a disturbance of the peace.
2. (of a person) inciting or taking part in a riot.
3. given to or marked by unrestrained revelry; loose; wanton: riotous living.
4. boisterous or uproarious: riotous laughter.
5. hilariously funny.
*****From the essay "On Running After One's Hat"
2) IRRADIATED--1. to shed rays of light upon; illuminate.
2. to illumine intellectually or spiritually.
3. to brighten as if with light.
4. to radiate (light, illumination, etc.).
5. to heat with radiant energy.
6. to treat by exposure to radiation, as of ultraviolet light.
7. to expose to radiation.
–verb (used without object)
8. Archaic.
a. to emit rays; shine.
b. to become radiant.
–adjective
9. irradiated; bright.
*****From the essay "On Running After One's Hat"
1) RIOTOUS--1. (of an act) characterized by or of the nature of rioting or a disturbance of the peace.
2. (of a person) inciting or taking part in a riot.
3. given to or marked by unrestrained revelry; loose; wanton: riotous living.
4. boisterous or uproarious: riotous laughter.
5. hilariously funny.
*****From the essay "On Running After One's Hat"
2) IRRADIATED--1. to shed rays of light upon; illuminate.
2. to illumine intellectually or spiritually.
3. to brighten as if with light.
4. to radiate (light, illumination, etc.).
5. to heat with radiant energy.
6. to treat by exposure to radiation, as of ultraviolet light.
7. to expose to radiation.
–verb (used without object)
8. Archaic.
a. to emit rays; shine.
b. to become radiant.
–adjective
9. irradiated; bright.
*****From the essay "On Running After One's Hat"
On Running After One's Hat
I found in the essay “On Running After One’s Hat”, by G.K. Chesterton, that it’s made up of three different kinds of essays on the “What Kind of Essay is This?” sheet. First of which is (VI.) Cheek and Irony essay. In the essay the author leads from the introduction into a man chasing after his hat. The author comments on how silly people are and goes on to make fun of them. I quote him saying “The same people run much more eagerly after an uninteresting little leather ball then they will after a nice silk hat.” He is saying that one is more likely to run after a dirty old ball and not think twice about it, but if their hat happens to fly away they are reluctant to chase after it in fear of humiliation.
The second of which is (IX.) Questions of Form and Style. In this essay it skips from talking about London, to making fun of people chasing hats and looking for wives. The essay does tend to meander into unexpected places, but not in a bad way. The third and final kind of essay I felt this was is (X.) Quotations and the uses of Learning. The essay does present the author in a well-read and educated light. They way he speaks of people, as if they are so ignorant and unaware. He does it in a way that he doesn’t come off vain or egotistical, but in a way that you believe him and want to learn from him.
My own thoughts on the essay are quite pleasant. I did enjoy the essay and the manner in which it was written .It was easy to get into and easy to read. When something is enjoyable it’s much easier to comprehend and understand and just plain get. I love the way the author meandered, it keep things interesting for me; and the way he poked fun at people locked me in. His sense of humor captured me and I could easily relate and enjoy. I feel the same way about how people are so self conscious of themselves that they do stupid things without thinking twice, but when it comes to something of importance or valve they are reluctant. It doesn’t make much sense, but that is what is so fun about it. All in all I enjoyed this essay and won’t object to reading more from this author.
The second of which is (IX.) Questions of Form and Style. In this essay it skips from talking about London, to making fun of people chasing hats and looking for wives. The essay does tend to meander into unexpected places, but not in a bad way. The third and final kind of essay I felt this was is (X.) Quotations and the uses of Learning. The essay does present the author in a well-read and educated light. They way he speaks of people, as if they are so ignorant and unaware. He does it in a way that he doesn’t come off vain or egotistical, but in a way that you believe him and want to learn from him.
My own thoughts on the essay are quite pleasant. I did enjoy the essay and the manner in which it was written .It was easy to get into and easy to read. When something is enjoyable it’s much easier to comprehend and understand and just plain get. I love the way the author meandered, it keep things interesting for me; and the way he poked fun at people locked me in. His sense of humor captured me and I could easily relate and enjoy. I feel the same way about how people are so self conscious of themselves that they do stupid things without thinking twice, but when it comes to something of importance or valve they are reluctant. It doesn’t make much sense, but that is what is so fun about it. All in all I enjoyed this essay and won’t object to reading more from this author.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
