Chapter Text
Let it be known; it is an impressive skill in itself to somehow teach a literature class any more dull and lazy as this. You would have had spent hours engaging and immersing yourself in the arts and linguistics of not only the classic literature of the other eras, but as well as had training in interpreting, presenting, and writing such interesting, beautiful knowledge. Being immersed and drowned in all this intellectualism and beauty and creativity, only to vaguely expound on Plato's remarks, and grossly distort Goethe's pithy, is only possible by the fool with no true love for the arts, is it not? I dare not say that one must accept an objective interpretation of Plato or Goethe, but—if I may invoke instead—that the interpretations in question lack any of the beauty and ideals that these crafts had laid fruit to. That is what I find repulsive and dull, and that is what made its way into this class. For a second, I hesitate to leave, but then I had recalled that I am a college student, and there would be no qualms for my leaving. I stood up, grabbing my things, and tiredly left the class. This professor is a fool, I needn't respect his anti-intellectualism and reductive thinking. As the doors swing open, I catch some vague chatter that which seem to come from the voice of that foolhardy "educator," but the words uttered made no coherence to my ears, and so I left without letting it bother me.
I personally do not know what posessed me take up this class for my credit. I could have chosen one of those philosophy classes—though, the theoretical understanding of pseudosciences doesn't really concern me. I am meant for greater prospects, I don't need to understand any more meaning than what I already know of myself. I might've participated in a new organization or club of sorts, but none really interested me. Besides, these organizations are better for those who think themselves social. I am anything but. Maybe I thought that literature would be as interesting as I recalled it, as I always did have a connection to fiction and literature during my younger years. A hobby, suppose to say. Nowadays, the only "hobby" I have is writing this book, and funnily enough, it is also the only thing I have done related to literature since exactly 6 years, 11 months, 13 days, 2 hours and 43 minutes ago. Maybe that was not that funny. I wouldn't know.
As I strolled, I looked for something—or somewhere—to bide my time. And so I later decided to begin writing as a form of rebellion towards that moronic professor. As you can see however, I myself am not what one could consider a "writer" of the traditional sense. Truth be told—I have never written anything other than cold, award-winning research studies and mandatory English essays. I always was simply an observer, a reader, and I enjoyed playing that role quite alot, as even research studies are—by their essence—observations scrutinized under interpretations. This book I write might as well be that; a collection of my observations for however long I decide to write this book.
My final observation for this session; in front of me I noticed someone also seemingly absorbed in their own literature. He had a tiny little book which he held up to his eyes so that he could thoroughly read through every line. To be honest, I do not think this is the first time I've seen this man. Where I currently am is a little spot found in a corner of the student campus, barely outside of the University grounds. A tiny park where the grass shines greatly under the bright sun, but the wind blows through the leaves quite constantly. The perfect place for one to lose themself in their studies, or seemingly for this person; their hobbies? Interests? I wonder. That is all I may commit to today, however. Wondering.
NOTE: He was in that class.
18/09/19XX
Written by Ms. Faust