“Later she remembered all the hours of the afternoon as happy -- one of those uneventful times that seem at the moment only a link between past and future pleasure, but turn out to have been the pleasure itself.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald

The above is from 'Tender is the Night'; a book that anyone rushing out to watch The Great Gatsby in cinemas these following weeks must bring themselves to read and re-read. And read again.

There's comfort in knowing that not all troubles arose afresh in my generation. That the children of the internet, of cable television, of strip malls and of frozen yoghurt did not dream up their own misfortunes. There has been much talk in recent press of us being the narcissistic, over-stimulated and under-worked youth. Tears have been spilt and hair torn over our callous, selfish selves.

It's a comfort to read about great literary characters who spew the same self-centered, misinformed, over-analytical garbage that we do. After all; these characters do not come from nowhere, and the authors who created them must have had some pretty messed up traits of their own to rustle up something so powerful and accurate as the cruelty that can come from the human spirit. Drunkards, womanisers, criminals and general scoundrels.
Evelyn Waugh was persistently in debt, orchestrating various tax-avoidance schemes, and snubbed the offer of a CBE because he felt he deserved a knighthood and no less. Tolstoy surprised his wife on the eve of their wedding by giving her a list of women he had slept with, one of whom had borne him a child. O. Henry was arrested and jailed for several months of charges of embezzlement. Dickens decided that, at the ripe old age of 45, now was the time to fall in love with an 18-year-old actress and turn his current wife and children out of the house, no questions asked.

These flaws humanise. They tarnish the gold leaf with which we adorn our memories of these men (and women; Virginia Woolf was thoughtful enough to write in her diary "I do not like the Jewish laugh. I do not like the Jewish voice" - and yet still went on to marry one.) Maybe it's a particular frame of mind that finds it easier to associate with the lazy, the weak and selfish. It's much more gratifying to bring them down to our level, than to wistfully observe that we, too, could be great if we only got up when our damn alarm clock told us to.

But I diverge. Something I find myself at fault of often doing is daydreaming. A small crime, sure.. but it takes years to realise of how much it robs you. I'm permanently living in the rosy glow of past amusements (or, indeed, the dark shadows of a previous life) or in the idyllic film-script of my future. I don't exist in the present tense.
There is a fantastic quote from the character of Julia in 'Brideshead Revisited' (which I have recently finished, having put it off for far, far too long) which runs something along the lines of time as pressing in on your from behind and arriving much too quickly ahead of you. One feels suffocatingly pressed upon from both sides and there's no room to live. It's only long after that we can truly recognise the beauty of a moment we regarded at the time as being a mere interval. A nothingness, a wait for something else, something better that, when it arrives; we're inevitably already ahead of ourselves and don't even notice it passing us by.

It's a beautiful day in May. I'm surrounded by good friends, good books, good food and freedom to myself. And the only way I can appreciate it is by removing myself from it and reminiscing about that lovely moment 40mins ago.

"The university brings out all abilities. Including incapability." - Anton Chekov

The Leaden-Eyed

Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve; but starve so dreamlessly,
Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,
Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,
Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.
Vachel Lindsay

It's that time of year again. Jeans and boots are swiftly dropped in favour of pyjama bottoms and hole-infested ski socks. Lunch becomes a daily pilgrimage of duty and desperation; a half-hour laspe in the dreaded time/work continuum. The library becomes a blizzard of strewn pages and open textbooks, a hive of anxious, paranoid, caffiene-addled worker bees who know no difference between day and night. Witty conversation is condensed with lighting speed to worry, self-deprication and hollow retorts of half-hearted moral support from friends who are themselves too far drowned to throw a life ring.
And those faces. Those eyes; straining to focus through days of missed sleep, to see through the barrage of words and sums and diagrams. Like some grotesque version of Google Glass envisioned by Stanley Kubrick in a particularly cruel frame of mind. A face the colour of forgotten marble.

Of course this is all a temporary illness. Merely the height of a fever which, once sweated out, leaves one feeling weak, starved, and yet deliriously happy to be out of the woods and half-alive. In this case: I'm not much good as a bed nurse. I'm standing by the doorframe; sympathetically contemplating the ailing patients progress and offering to bring a glass of water. He must get himself better. Nothing can help him now except to clench his teeth and ride out the storm.

For many of my friends; the storm has hit. They are floundering on the waves of nausea; tossing and turning in a fitful sleep of unfinished essays and forgotten chapters.

And I am waiting. I'm 'slinging beef' (as my friend calls my current waitressing job) and begging tips. I'm polishing cupboards and folding napkins. Living a life so far removed from my university life that I feel like an intruder sitting in the same library. A userper of public justice, a threat to the unspoken mob-culture of pervading misery and masochism. Waiting patiently outside the sickroom for permission to be allowed in.