SPOILER ALERT
I’ve always avoided those massive introductions to classic novels ever since a bunch of them fully spoiled the endings for me. During my short-lived and failed stint at University we were encouraged to spend what little money we had on overpriced Oxford editions so that some scholar could not only bore us to death with a preface half as long as the work itself, but also do the books terrible disservices by dropping in spoilers willy nilly, as if the purpose of literature isn’t to entertain but merely to study and expound upon. “You should know the ending to Wuthering Heights by now!” - well no, actually, why would I because I haven’t fucking read it! (Obviously I do but that’s beside the point). If this is how our foremost experts treat the texts they claim to adore, no wonder all the kids prefer dick pics to Dickens, autism to Austen, and Minecraft to Mein Kampf (sorry that last example was horrible). And who can honestly blame them?
The other day I read a novel’s introduction after completion, foolishly assuming that I was safe, only for the dickhead to manage giving away plot points for sequels later in the series. Is he retarded? John Ashbury, your crimes against French literature have not gone unnoticed, and if I’d an ounce of adeptness at Black Magick your kids would be comin home to find you cold on the kitchen floor with a blood bubble out your left nostril.
It honestly makes me glad to see Universities losing their credibility and slowly going under. I wanna see cut funding and doors closing. There’s clearly nothing left to write about other works of art (there never was really) so they’ve resorted to giving away endings as if enjoying the suspense of a classic is somehow missing the point.
God help us
The tonedeafness of scholars reaches its peak when they go on strike. I understand that the shitty conditions for, say, a job on the Tube aint so clear till after a little research, but I struggle to understand what’s so hard about showing up late to your own lecture and proceeding to not know how to run PowerPoint. Ok, I’ll respect it if they remain on strike till the demands of every last University worker is met, from the Dean and Fellows right down to the weirdly all-African cleaning staff, whose offices I assume aren’t filled with nearly as much dark wood furniture and first editions.
One tutor sternly demanded we let her know in advance if we’re to miss any of her seminars. I think in my heart that’s when I checked out - thousands of pounds worth of debt just didn’t seem worth the privilege of being spoken to like a child. You’re getting paid by me: I’ll show up as little as I bloody well please! And that’s just what I did, until through the haze of weed, poppers, and sleep deprivation, I glimpsed the glorious light of giving up, and decided to check out - formally this time.
Some people never escaped. Out in the real world I most often encounter these sad shadows in the form of know-it-all sound engineers who’ve never mic’d up a room outside of their hundred-thousand-pound uni studio. Much like the John Ashburys of this world, they love giving away spoilers. I’d prefer to be kept in suspense, to feel that the night could go either way, but as soon as they rudely announce that the feedback is due to your cupping the mic rather than their ludicrously hot monitors or inability or unwillingness to spend 30 secs ringing out a nasty frequency, the ghost is given up. All suspense is dissolved. This gig will, indeed, sound fuckin shite.