Today, I partially repaid my sleep debt, I went to my favorite store and spent the afternoon at Prof H’s author conference as a scribe, which was both interesting and gratifying. I really respect her eloquence of speech, which always sounds so textured, informed and composed in a way not commonly associated with extemporaneous speaking.
And then afterwards, unexpectedly, there was a very lovely dinner at Casablanca, where we shared appetizers, but I also ordered duck liver paté and the venison entrée. Hmmmn. I was so stuffed. In fact, I still am stuffed, and it’s just past 4am.
But sitting amongst all the career academics and listening to their flurry of conversation about the institutions they had studied and taught at, their thoughts on publishing academic work and questions of audience, readership and marketability, I was never more glad for the classes I’m taking now. Concepts, ideas and frameworks referred to as germane to the dinner conversation included Derrida, Bakhtin and Wittgenstein (“Wittgenstein is very clear about this: you don’t change people’s minds, you change the language games”), all of whom I have read this past semester. Or was assigned to have read this semester; technically I didn’t read either the Bakhtin (which I lugged to Madagascar) or the Wittgenstein (though I have a lovely hardbound 50th anniversary commemorative edition). As a bonus I also recognized the South African wine ordered (Glen Carlou) from having bought some of their very excellent 2002 Pinot Noir in London last summer.
And now, having watched Madagascar with Emily and Mary, followed by the sort of meandering, profound conversations that occur in common rooms after 2am, I am finally headed to bed. Goodnight.