Thursday, 31 March 2005


My work-in-progress (and I use the latter two words with a license that goes far beyond poetic) paper is a steaming morass of excrement, a vapid vapour of boiled bile, a foul, festering, phantom of fetor, a tepid, shadowy imitation of a poor attempt.*

Suffice to say, it's not going as swimmingly as I'd like, and what I have actually done fills me with neither satisfaction nor confidence, either for its acceptance or for the progress of my studies.

* Earlier drafts included "redolent mess" and "debaucherous disgrace". I needed a thesaurus for fetor (fecundity, for all its alliterative appeal, rightly rang falsely). By way of reparation, I'll try to use it tomorrow to confuse a frenchman.

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