Tonight I’m in a “down mood.” I’ve discussed the papers I’m to complete for May and they seem so overwhelming, yet so uninteresting. I can’t understand this. They are not that difficult—I’ve done before and I can do again. I’m sure of it. Yet I am caught by this sense of utter futility of it all. Every subject, every atomized dissection of every topic has been done—what need is there to add to this disgustingly voluminous world of published material? Who needs to write anything, anyway? There are too many writers around already. How could anyone possibly be interested in anything I could write. The only thing that has any value is a news story, good today, for a quick read, gone tomorrow.
I feel all this required writing is a waste of several months of time—it’s all a make-work project, that’s all. Just the glorified high school “copy Shakespeare’s fifth sonnet” make-work. (Did Shakespeare have a fifth sonnet?)
I’m so discouraged when I see these professors and all their knowledge about so many different fields. And languages too—they can at least speak three. Students too—it seems like that Israeli has read every book we talk about. I must be incredibly ignorant. I’m just not “intellectual stock.” I can see. This fall, I believed this “intellectual business” was the true meaning of life. Or led to it anyway. Tonight I think it’s all dross; it’s the plain old grind-’em-out reporter who holds the key.”
—Jan. 10, 1980, University of Warwick, Coventry, England
OtD 