I have always been a bit too authentic for my own good when it comes to one of my main areas of interest: women in Victorian times. Today I am legit coughing up blood while feverishly attempting to grapple with an essay on the portrayal of immanent evil in Vernon Lee's stories of aesthetics and art. Who the fuck knows.
I am absolutely consumed with self pity, but there is a certain poetry in it. In the stories the male genius (that would then be me, all academics are white middle aged men, as is well known) is, in his attempt to portray the muse (write an essay), capture the wild inspiration (not get thrown out of university), taken over by an unknown pagan power (consumption?), and succumbs, usually, to madness or despair (eagerly awaiting this very moment).
I am absolutely consumed with self pity, but there is a certain poetry in it. In the stories the male genius (that would then be me, all academics are white middle aged men, as is well known) is, in his attempt to portray the muse (write an essay), capture the wild inspiration (not get thrown out of university), taken over by an unknown pagan power (consumption?), and succumbs, usually, to madness or despair (eagerly awaiting this very moment).