Irony Becomes Her

Potpourri

If it weren't for the fifteen insect bites on each of my ankles, I would be in the best of health. As it is, the frustration of constant itching is only exceeded by puzzlement at whence came my malady so suddenly on Monday afternoon.

Other than that slight annoyance, I have nothing to complain about. Though I cannot help but hope such satisfaction continues, it does not bode well for my success at blogging. In my general observation, to which there are many exceptions, blogs present themselves as perfect complaining grounds, a "harmless" outlet for our frustrations and a sympathetic Internet ear for our clever pet peeves. But as I am in danger of exactly the same conduct I here criticize, I will change the subject.

I am excited to begin my summer class in less than a week. Though it is focused on dialects within American English, its subject matter in linguistics and the theory behind spoken language in general will fill a gap in my understanding. My only related class was History of the English Language at LeTourneau, and I regret that my former ignorance was so extreme that the class only succeeded in making me aware that I was ignorant.

I am on my third Jane Austen novel for the summer, and I often find myself writing and speaking in her style. Though admiration of her works would canvass an already threadbare subject, I must admit that my pleasure in them is never reduced in repeated readings. I hope always to have the healthy sense of humor she demonstrates, one which lasts through more than two centuries without being much worse for wear.

posted by Lynn @ 9:03 AM