Conrad’s Heart of Darkness only takes up seventy-six pages of the Norton Critical Edition. The rest is criticism and commentary. The weight of which shall undoubtedly further damage my back this fall.

Whereas, Dickens’ Great Expectations takes up three hundred fifty-eight pages of seven hundred and forty-six. However, this seems reasonable. The Norton Critical Editions of Eliot’s Middlemarch and Hardy’s The Return of the Native are much the same.

In order to beat the obnoxious ‘freshman rush’, — as it were –,I went to the campus bookstore and purchased my textbooks for the semester. Three full bags. Upon slowing struggling half the distance to my car a middle-aged man approached me and asked me if I required help. He carried my books whilst we conversed upon transferring, graduating (he did seem impressed with changing majors four times, transfering three times, taking a semester off and only graduating a year late story — every time I tell it I start to feel like Barbara Streisand in What’s Up, Doc[(?)]), how-his-son-spent-seven-years-in-college-ended-up-with-three-majors-and-now-lives-in-Boulder, Colorado-works-three-days-a-week-and-skis-the-rest, and how I never let on to my parents that there’s not much one can do with an English major/history minor. As I opened my trunk I said something to the effect of, ‘I could always teach, I suppose.’ He said, Why that is what I do. I asked where and he said, Why here. Whereupon I raised an eyebrow and asked him which professor he was. W—–, he answered. (Yes, it’s not stylistic, dear and gentle reader that is not as Dear and Gentle as Mrs. Mosley, I honestly don’t remember his name, Wittgenstein surfaces in my head, but I think that has more to do with the fact that I had just purchased Wittgenstein On Rules and Private Language for a course on the Philosophy of Language.) I shook his hand and queried as to what classes he was teaching this semester, and named the courses I was taking. He’s teaching a senior seminar on ‘Criticism of the Novel’. Here on, dear and gentle reader that is not as Dear and Gentle as Mrs. Mosley, I shall refer to this Mr. W—- as Mr. Criticism on the Novel for clarity and brevity’s sake. We shook hands and I told him I was happy to make his acquaintance, he returning the formality before making his way out of the parking garage. J.M. Coetzee’s Disgrace has forever left me extremely wary of male professors (I do have a professor of sociology that stalks me at work, Louis from Portugal), especially of the English lit variety. However, I might add that I am unawares as to whether this be prudence or paranoia. Perhaps the two go hand-in-hand?

For the first time since freshman year (when I was given a free copy during orientation) I purchased a Gopher Guide. It would be tragedy to miss any important dates in the school-year calendar. It is of an utmost importance that I manage to graduate.