said look.

Thinking too late at night about the problem of publishing.

Don't let me run off with the subject: Click to see the results.

I have not transferred anything of sufficient worth to a large enough audience to say that I am fit for publication. But as I recently typed to a professor, “in my study style owns.” I have worthy stuff, you'd say so yourself. Publishing must begin soon so that I have padding, yes, so that I float up into the office complex of that one floor, the sixth of Pray Harold where professors are abuzz especially on early-semester Mondays, they positively hum with production—-of thoughts too sharp and various to mention here.

Accept it that it all tests one’s patience with the limits of language to say just What is connecting the strands of this interdisciplinary conversation within one department. The humanities are alive in here, the entire realm of creative and speculative thought is shifting around. Fortunately I swim well in several domains, I am eclectic, et cetera. But the content I've tossed up onto the web is too miscellaneous; one takes me for mad in letters.

As if I am driven to lose the audience since I assume they're in the dark—-I’m blinded by stage lights and I try, I try painfully hard, to see the audience like I'm waiting for a sneeze I know is doomed the moment I itch. Just look at my face as I peer: jaded suggesting early tarnishment. I’ve diluted and used up the best of my brand in a medium too causal to merit much attention--we question not a priori--regardless of the editorial labor I’ve exacted surely it’s all for naught.

Just so, the metallic scratches of everyday use gather round the center of the literary lamp like glowing conviviality. In Middlemarch it appeared as vanity...here the social web is...appreciated for its effects on discourse. One had better embrace hypertext—-links appearing (as) italics.