Freshman year, I took an English class called "Reading and Writing the Modern Essay." I wasn't particularly interested in taking any English classes before I got to college because I had been slightly brainwashed by the overwhelming opposition to language classes in Science Bowl. This was actually contradictory to many of the things that I had believed about myself prior to joining the group, including the fact that I was going to become either a journalist or a writer. Anyway, because of this serious harping on how the humanities were destroying the integrity of the world, I elected to shop classes outside the English department. And then people started emailing me (the only time, I might add, which led to much grief later) about preregistering for English classes and, after reading many, many, overwhelmingly positive reviews, I decided to go for it (though I was slightly wary about the types of people who might be giving positive reviews to these sorts of classes).
I didn't get my first choice, or should I say, I didn't get what I thought at the time should be my first choice. I say this because after our first class, I was sold on my professor's quirky wit and tendency to treat rules as guidelines. Andrew's rules were more like Olympic gymnasts, or Gumby: supremely bendy. And though the name "Reading and Writing the Modern Essay" sounds like the most pedantic class you'll ever take, it has remained, four years later, the class that has changed my elective learning trajectory. I was also sold when, as a treat for our first workshop day, he brought lunch. For everyone. Yeah. Pretty much awesome.
So this morning, when I wake up to the dreariest of skies with the foul taste of dry in my mouth, my email bings and oh hey, I'm on Andrew's syllabus for his section this semester. WHAT?!?
I didn't get my first choice, or should I say, I didn't get what I thought at the time should be my first choice. I say this because after our first class, I was sold on my professor's quirky wit and tendency to treat rules as guidelines. Andrew's rules were more like Olympic gymnasts, or Gumby: supremely bendy. And though the name "Reading and Writing the Modern Essay" sounds like the most pedantic class you'll ever take, it has remained, four years later, the class that has changed my elective learning trajectory. I was also sold when, as a treat for our first workshop day, he brought lunch. For everyone. Yeah. Pretty much awesome.
So this morning, when I wake up to the dreariest of skies with the foul taste of dry in my mouth, my email bings and oh hey, I'm on Andrew's syllabus for his section this semester. WHAT?!?
Readings (all in the course packet, except as noted):
Atwood, excerpt from “Writing the Male Character”
Scott Russell Sanders, “Father Within”
Jonathan Ames, “Ron Gospodarski”
Auster, “Portrait of an Invisible Man” (pp. 3-60 of Collected Prose)
Lukeman, A Dash of Style, ch. 4: “The Colon (The Magician)”
Bök, Eunoia, cont.
Orwell, “Why I Write” (in Facing Unpleasant Facts)
Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven”
Edgar Allan Poe, excerpt from “The Philosophy of Composition”
Angela She (JE ’12; Engl 120 F08), “Portrait of a Man in a Tan Coat” <-- LOOK IT'S ME!!!
Hody Nemes (SY ’13; Engl 120 F10), “A Cartoon of a Man”
E-Lynn Yap (TD ’14; Engl 120 S11), “First Impressions”
HeyO. That's surreal. I wonder if professors who assign themselves as reading get the same surreal feeling that I'm getting right now. The only thing left to do is to go find this course packet and like...nuzzle it or something.
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