Every day I walk past that bookstand and every fucking day I still see that Prokofiev biography. I hate it for whatever reason. It's like it's taunting me.
Today I made a grave mistake. During class, we started studying rhetoric, and as an exercise we were given two poems and a hypothetical situation, where we were to pick one to fill the last free slot in an anthology. We did this in groups of 3-4. I was in a group with two girls, one that hates me, and one that I sometimes talk with and share homework and information with. So we read the poems, talk about them, discuss the merits and then we pick one. The one we picked was the one that sounded more traditional and old. (It was also a task to identify which is contemporary and which is from a hundred years ago.)
Both were impressionist poems. I argued that the one titled "An Impressionist Dream" was the newer one, simply because it had a more minimalist language, and it's title expressed a meta-approach to impressionism, one that's only possible once the given style has been surpassed. The girl I'm closer to was intrigued by my comments, the one that hates me didn't particularly care because of a headache.
As conclusion, we voted, who likes which, and I voted for the perceivably older poem. The girl I like stated she likes both, to which I replied that I'm not fond of the modern one, simply because the older poem has a fuller and richer language.
In the end, we picked the older one as a group.
I stood up, made an oration in defence of our choice, and then sat down.
A delegate from the other groups did the same. This basically took up all of the class time.
Just before the bell rang, the teacher revealed, which poem was which, and who are the authors.
One, which I correctly perceived older, was by the Hungarian poet Árpád Tóth. The other, which I expressed my dislike for , was by the very same girl who I looked in the eye when I said I don't like it.
It took a moment to dawn on me, but since then, it has been periodically hitting me in the stomach. I'm a butcher, and this was an unjust slaughter. Or was it. I don't know that, and the only thing I'm sure of is that I almost fainted when I've realised what I've done.
I'm going to postpone working on my presentation. I'm going to go to bed early. I'll have plenty of time tomorrow, because we have shortened lessons because of some exams.
Every day I walk past that bookstand and every fucking day I still see that Prokofiev biography. I hate it for whatever reason. It's like it's taunting me.
Today I made a grave mistake. During class, we started studying rhetoric, and as an exercise we were given two poems and a hypothetical situation, where we were to pick one to fill the last free slot in an anthology. We did this in groups of 3-4. I was in a group with two girls, one that hates me, and one that I sometimes talk with and share homework and information with. So we read the poems, talk about them, discuss the merits and then we pick one. The one we picked was the one that sounded more traditional and old. (It was also a task to identify which is contemporary and which is from a hundred years ago.)
Both were impressionist poems. I argued that the one titled "An Impressionist Dream" was the newer one, simply because it had a more minimalist language, and it's title expressed a meta-approach to impressionism, one that's only possible once the given style has been surpassed. The girl I'm closer to was intrigued by my comments, the one that hates me didn't particularly care because of a headache.
As conclusion, we voted, who likes which, and I voted for the perceivably older poem. The girl I like stated she likes both, to which I replied that I'm not fond of the modern one, simply because the older poem has a fuller and richer language.
In the end, we picked the older one as a group.
I stood up, made an oration in defence of our choice, and then sat down.
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