Utterly contrived topic sentence revealing pretty much every flaw of structured essay writing. Therefore, supporting sentence invoking source that exists only in the bibliographies of other cited material (pp. arbitrary to arbitrary + 5). Contemplative question? Definitive refutation paraphrased from a blog found at 2AM:
'Massive block text to lend legitimacy to this sorry endeavor.'
— Legitimate-sounding Anglo Saxon name (year between 1859 and 1967)
Obviously, non-sequitur segue. Utter misinterpretation of the only other author researched for this paper. Blind search for evidence reflecting increasing desperation (authors 4, 5, and 6). Moreover, loose observation to try to force coherence. Indeed, an attempt at humor!
Here’s what I do need, in a “capital-B Bar” and in all things really: openness. I want it to feel like it’s okay with the establishment that I’m not trying to look like a woman on the cover of a magazine when I walk inside. Actually, you know, let’s dial it down a little further: I want it to feel okay that I didn’t brush my hair. I think I’ve always had my hair brushed when I’ve gone to Raccoon’s, but that’s not the point. They would serve me with non-brushed hair. They would serve me with day-old mascara that is smudged all over my eyes. In fact, this would allow me to make a joke about the affinity of my own appearance and that of their namesake animal mascot, allow me to bond with Raccoon’s even further. I should add that their karaoke experience is unafraid of the tambourine—there’s usually one there for you to shake the hell out of. It’s just another indicator that you don’t have to hold back when you’re inside.
Eliot’s dress was a model of the London man of business. He wore a bowler and often carried a tightly rolled umbrella. His accent which started out as pure American Middle West did undergo changes, becoming over the years quite British U.
Last week, I pointed to former Millions-er Emily M. Keeler’s review of Wolf in White Van, the new novel by John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats. Now, at Slate, Carl Wilson offers his own praise of the book, which he describes as “not the kind of rallying cry or dark comfort that Mountain Goats fans are used to, but a complex meditation.”
"The voice at the center of Bright Lights, Big City may be spoiled and petulant, but it also is unmistakably American: fatally romantic, distrustful of authority, and democratic to a fault, even as it sounds its barbaric yawp over the rooftop parties of the world.” Our own Michael Bourne on Jay McInerney’s novel of the eighties.
RIP Karl Miller, one of the founders of The London Review of Books and an editor of the magazine for thirteen years. Originally meant to fill a vacuum left by a strike at the Times Literary Supplement, the LRB grew into “the liveliest, the most serious and also the most radical literary magazine we have,” in Alan Bennett’s words.
But if procrastination is so clearly a society-wide, public condition, why is it always framed as an individual, personal deficiency? Why do we assume our own temperaments and habits are at fault — and feel bad about them — rather than question our culture’s canonization of productivity?
Michael Robbins is our contemporary poet laureate for beautiful sins of language. The New Republic calls Robbins a prankster. He rather reminds me of that whiskey priest, his lines by turns abrasive and aphoristic, but never apathetic.
It’s a question that puzzles writers of all stripes: why is so much academic writing so terrible? It’s an issue that’s been a lifelong head-scratcher for the linguist Steven Pinker, who set out to answer the question once and for all. His verdict? It has to do with the meaning of “literary style.”