Went out for drinks with some of my former grad school cohort last night. Turns out I'm not the only one who's moving over the next few weeks. Would have been a pleasant night out -- beer gardens in the summer are always good -- except I had this is it, this is the last time running through my head all evening.
Also had my first anxiety dream of the season, which is a sure sign that the new academic year and the job market are only a few weeks away. In this one, one of my committee members flatly refused to approve my dissertation, only I'd somehow managed to graduate and take a new job without noticing that she hadn't signed off on it, and consequently landed in a great deal of trouble for academic fraud. It wasn't quite as good as the one last year where I was offered a job in a religious studies department and begged off because I didn't know anything about the subject matter, and then my mother, my advisor, my Impossibly Polished and Perfect Colleage, and (for some reason) J.R.R. Tolkien all came over to chew me out for turning down a perfectly good tenure-track job. That one was something of a lifetime high for my subconscious.
Ah well. Back to packing.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
I am SO not cut out for this moving business
Step 1: Decide what kind of music you want to have on as you pack. This is an important decision, and should not be made too hastily.
Step 2: Decide what kind of beer you want. See above.
Step 3: What to pack? How about some plates and glasses? These will have to be wrapped up in paper, and packed in the box that says FRAGILE -- THIS SIDE UP. Unfortunately this box is crammed full of paper. Spend five minutes transfering all the paper to another box, then drag both boxes out to the kitchen. (Note that writing "FRAGILE -- THIS SIDE UP" on the second box would be cheating.)
Step 4: Wrap up some dishes in paper, put them in the box.
Step 5: Discover that seldom-used wine glasses have some kind of nasty sticky residue on them. Wash wine glasses.
Step 6: Notice that it is probably a bad idea to wrap them up in paper while they're still drying; also, have made tactical error because one of the glasses that should eventually be packed still has half a beer in it. Decide to sift through papers instead.
Step 7: Notice unpaid traffic ticket and incomplete mail-forwarding form among papers. Take care of these things.
Step 8: On way to mailbox, notice that it is raining. Stand on back patio and watch rain for a while.
Step 9: Back to papers. Discover notes and handouts from job talks last time graduate department hired Ren lit person, five years ago. Become seized with inexplicably strong desire to know what happened to unsuccessful candidates.
Step 10: Google candidates. (They both got good jobs. Also, one of them has the same name as a football player.) Also Google bottle of Italian dessert liqueur that you found in the fridge, to discover whether it would be a bad idea to drink it when it's more than three years old. Type up blog post while you're here.
Oh, this is more or less how I wrote my dissertation, too. No wonder it took four years.
Step 2: Decide what kind of beer you want. See above.
Step 3: What to pack? How about some plates and glasses? These will have to be wrapped up in paper, and packed in the box that says FRAGILE -- THIS SIDE UP. Unfortunately this box is crammed full of paper. Spend five minutes transfering all the paper to another box, then drag both boxes out to the kitchen. (Note that writing "FRAGILE -- THIS SIDE UP" on the second box would be cheating.)
Step 4: Wrap up some dishes in paper, put them in the box.
Step 5: Discover that seldom-used wine glasses have some kind of nasty sticky residue on them. Wash wine glasses.
Step 6: Notice that it is probably a bad idea to wrap them up in paper while they're still drying; also, have made tactical error because one of the glasses that should eventually be packed still has half a beer in it. Decide to sift through papers instead.
Step 7: Notice unpaid traffic ticket and incomplete mail-forwarding form among papers. Take care of these things.
Step 8: On way to mailbox, notice that it is raining. Stand on back patio and watch rain for a while.
Step 9: Back to papers. Discover notes and handouts from job talks last time graduate department hired Ren lit person, five years ago. Become seized with inexplicably strong desire to know what happened to unsuccessful candidates.
Step 10: Google candidates. (They both got good jobs. Also, one of them has the same name as a football player.) Also Google bottle of Italian dessert liqueur that you found in the fridge, to discover whether it would be a bad idea to drink it when it's more than three years old. Type up blog post while you're here.
Oh, this is more or less how I wrote my dissertation, too. No wonder it took four years.
Monday, July 23, 2007
thinking about old term papers
Have started to clear out some of the great big piles of paper in the apartment. Threw away most of the old bank statements and car insurance policies. Could not bring myself to throw away the undergraduate term papers, or even the incredibly unwelcome letter from a former boyfriend that I'm glad I never answered.
Looking through my old academic work has confirmed something I've always suspected: I'm really a pretty lousy student. My class notes, such as they are, tend to consist of observations like "I NEVER EVER want to hear the phrase 'discourse of the body' again," and, in one case, a stick-man version of Hamlet; I seem to have recycled a bunch of paper topics from undergrad and used them again in grad school (one even ended up as a dissertation chapter); my papers were filled with snarky asides, random thoughts, and extended references to Monty Python and the Reduced Shakespeare Company; and I clearly hadn't mastered the finer points of MLA documentation by the time I was a senior in college. Most of my profs never called me on this stuff. This bothers me a little, because I do tend to call my own students on it, and I'm wondering if I'm being too harsh. I'm not sure I would have liked to have me as a professor. I liked the old guys with tenure and a perpetual attitude of amused tolerance. It's usually the young, female professors who are strict about such things, and while I liked a lot of them, too, and learned a great deal in their classes, they were never who I wanted to be.
I'm in two minds about what this means. On the one hand, nudging a student toward a more formal and less flippant writing style is a sign of respect -- it shows you're thinking of her not as a cute, precocious kid but a knowlegeable professional. We're toughest on students when we believe in them. On the other hand, I suspect that the underlying message -- and I do believe it is a message most often directed by female instructors towards female students -- is that successful academic writing involves suppressing humor and idiosyncrasy and character, and that isn't what I want to tell my students at all.
I don't really know which is the best way. I do think I want to change my classroom persona a bit now that I have a doctorate and a place to make a fresh start -- you know, joke around a bit more, put my hair up in a bun less often -- but I'm not sure how, or whether, I want to change my ways of commenting on written work. (As a side note, I was also struck by how much more I write on papers than most of my undergrad profs did -- granted, this is more true for comp than lit, and I never took comp. Do the comments do any good, I wonder, or do they just get glossed over and thrown away?)
So, yeah, random thoughts 'r' us.
Looking through my old academic work has confirmed something I've always suspected: I'm really a pretty lousy student. My class notes, such as they are, tend to consist of observations like "I NEVER EVER want to hear the phrase 'discourse of the body' again," and, in one case, a stick-man version of Hamlet; I seem to have recycled a bunch of paper topics from undergrad and used them again in grad school (one even ended up as a dissertation chapter); my papers were filled with snarky asides, random thoughts, and extended references to Monty Python and the Reduced Shakespeare Company; and I clearly hadn't mastered the finer points of MLA documentation by the time I was a senior in college. Most of my profs never called me on this stuff. This bothers me a little, because I do tend to call my own students on it, and I'm wondering if I'm being too harsh. I'm not sure I would have liked to have me as a professor. I liked the old guys with tenure and a perpetual attitude of amused tolerance. It's usually the young, female professors who are strict about such things, and while I liked a lot of them, too, and learned a great deal in their classes, they were never who I wanted to be.
I'm in two minds about what this means. On the one hand, nudging a student toward a more formal and less flippant writing style is a sign of respect -- it shows you're thinking of her not as a cute, precocious kid but a knowlegeable professional. We're toughest on students when we believe in them. On the other hand, I suspect that the underlying message -- and I do believe it is a message most often directed by female instructors towards female students -- is that successful academic writing involves suppressing humor and idiosyncrasy and character, and that isn't what I want to tell my students at all.
I don't really know which is the best way. I do think I want to change my classroom persona a bit now that I have a doctorate and a place to make a fresh start -- you know, joke around a bit more, put my hair up in a bun less often -- but I'm not sure how, or whether, I want to change my ways of commenting on written work. (As a side note, I was also struck by how much more I write on papers than most of my undergrad profs did -- granted, this is more true for comp than lit, and I never took comp. Do the comments do any good, I wonder, or do they just get glossed over and thrown away?)
So, yeah, random thoughts 'r' us.
Friday, July 20, 2007
obligatory Harry Potter post
You know what's great about finishing a Ph.D.? They give you wizard's robes. I'm so excited about having a ready-made costume. (Why yes, I am a geek. How did you ever guess?)
Have been re-reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince so I can remember where we left off, and I have come to the following conclusion: Lord Voldemort is my academic job-search hero. I mean, how great would it be just to walk into somebody's office and demand the professorship that you want -- and then when they don't give it to you, curse it so all your rivals meet nasty fates? Dude, that's some serious job-search badassery. Unfortunately, I'm starting to think that may be what it takes to land a tenure-track position in English.
Have been re-reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince so I can remember where we left off, and I have come to the following conclusion: Lord Voldemort is my academic job-search hero. I mean, how great would it be just to walk into somebody's office and demand the professorship that you want -- and then when they don't give it to you, curse it so all your rivals meet nasty fates? Dude, that's some serious job-search badassery. Unfortunately, I'm starting to think that may be what it takes to land a tenure-track position in English.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Summer reading: George a Green, the Pinner of Wakefield
This play makes me happy. First of all, it is short. Secondly, it has Robin Hood, a 103-year-old guy kicking some ass, and a shoemaker saying "None shall pass!"
Stuff that happens: The Earl of Kendall and his troops come to Bradford, leading a rebellion against King Edward, ostensibly "to relieve the poore." Actually, they intend to make an alliance with the Scots and "make havoucke of those countrey Swaynes: / For so will the rest tremble and be afraid." Kendall sends Sir Nicholas Mannering to Wakefield to demand food. The Justice and townsmen of Wakefield refuse. George a Green tears up Kendall's commission and forces Mannnering to eat the seals. Old Musgrove argues with his son Cuddy about whether Musgrove is too old to do battle with the Scots (he is 103). Grime tries to marry his daughter Bettris to one of the rebels, Lord Bonfild, but she protests that she loves only George a Green, though he is poor. The King of Scots falls in love with a married woman, Jane a Barley; she turns him down, and then Old Musgrove comes along and takes him prisoner. Kendall and his men put their horses to pasture in George's wheatfield. George has words with Kendall and eventually strikes him when Kendall says he will be King Edward's beter within a month. Kendall tries to arrest him, and George defends himself: "Why my Lord, measure me but by your selfe: / Had you a man had serv'd you long, / And heard your foe misuse you behinde your backe, / And would not draw his sword in your defence / You would cashere him. / Much more, King Edward is my king: / And before Ile heare him so wrong'd / Ile die within this place."
Impressed with this, Kendall pardons George and offers to make him a captain. George asks if Kendall has any hope of winning, and Kendall tells him there has been a prophecy that says he and King James will defeat King Edward. George says he'll join Kendall if the local prophet, an old man who dwells in a cave, can also promise victory. George dresses his young servant Willy as a girl and sends him with a message for Bettris. Bettris's father falls in love with Willy and welcomes him into the house. George, meanwhile, disguises himself as the old prophet in the forest and prophesizes that Kendall and his men will be defeated by George a Green. He fights them, slays one of them, and takes Kendall and Lord Bonfild prisoner. He turns them over to the Justice and meets Bettris, who has sneaked out of her house.
King Edward shows up, pardons the rebels at George's request, and reconciles with King James. Maid Marian, who is jealous of Bettris, makes Robin Hood promise to beat him, so they go to Wakefield with Scarlet and Much the Miller's Son. Jenkin the Clown comes to Wakefield with a staff on his shoulders, and a shoemaker informs him that "here is a custome held, / That none shall passe with his staffe on his shoulders, / But he must have a bout with me." Jenkin doesn't feel like fighting, so they all go off to the alehouse instead. George defeats Scarlet and Much, fights Robin Hood, and finally makes a truce when he finds out who his opponent is. ("Robin Hood? next to king Edward / Art thou leefe to me.") King Edward and King James go to Wakefield in disguise and confront the shoemaker, who makes them trail their staves behind them. George calls them base-minded peasants and fights all the shoemakers in town. They recognize him after he beats them down and invite him to join them for a pot of ale. The Earl of Warwick brings out the king's garments, and everyone falls to their knees. "Come, masters, all fellowes," says the king. "Nay, Robin, you are the best man at the boord to day. / Rise up George." The king asks George if he can do anything for him, and George says he wants to marry Grime's daughter Bettris. Grime agrees, as long as he can marry the disguised Willy. Willy reveals that he is a boy, but Grime says he is content for George to have his daughter and his lands. King Edward offers to make George a knight, but George replies, "Then let me live and die a yeoman still: / So was my father, so must live his sonne. / For tis more credite to men of base degree, / To do great deeds, than men of dignitie."
Thoughts: This one dates from 1599, which makes it almost exactly contemporary with The Shoemaker's Holiday, Henry V, and Heywood's Edward IV plays, and I'm seeing a lot of common threads -- though George a Green is more of a feel-good play than any of the above, even TSH. The disguised-king scenes here are mostly warm and fuzzy -- in contrast to the far more problematic sequences in Heywood and Shakespeare. George's refusal of a knighthood reminds me of Matthew Shore's in 1 Edward IV, but without the baggage of future betrayal that makes the scene so painful in Heywood. This is a tale of loyalty rewarded, and all of the royal and noble characters are essentially decent (including Kendall, or George's request that Kendall judge him by his own measure wouldn't work). Kendall's claim that he "rise[s] not against king Edward / But for the poore that is opprest by wrong" is manifestly hypocritical (in fact, he's the one doing the oppressing), which makes for a nice tidy homily against rebellion -- but at the same time, we've got a pinner striking an earl and calling the king a coward, and getting away with it. The underlying debate, I think, is "do we judge a man by his birth or by his deeds" -- and interestingly, George makes the argument at the end that birth does matter, at least to a degree.
Stuff that happens: The Earl of Kendall and his troops come to Bradford, leading a rebellion against King Edward, ostensibly "to relieve the poore." Actually, they intend to make an alliance with the Scots and "make havoucke of those countrey Swaynes: / For so will the rest tremble and be afraid." Kendall sends Sir Nicholas Mannering to Wakefield to demand food. The Justice and townsmen of Wakefield refuse. George a Green tears up Kendall's commission and forces Mannnering to eat the seals. Old Musgrove argues with his son Cuddy about whether Musgrove is too old to do battle with the Scots (he is 103). Grime tries to marry his daughter Bettris to one of the rebels, Lord Bonfild, but she protests that she loves only George a Green, though he is poor. The King of Scots falls in love with a married woman, Jane a Barley; she turns him down, and then Old Musgrove comes along and takes him prisoner. Kendall and his men put their horses to pasture in George's wheatfield. George has words with Kendall and eventually strikes him when Kendall says he will be King Edward's beter within a month. Kendall tries to arrest him, and George defends himself: "Why my Lord, measure me but by your selfe: / Had you a man had serv'd you long, / And heard your foe misuse you behinde your backe, / And would not draw his sword in your defence / You would cashere him. / Much more, King Edward is my king: / And before Ile heare him so wrong'd / Ile die within this place."
Impressed with this, Kendall pardons George and offers to make him a captain. George asks if Kendall has any hope of winning, and Kendall tells him there has been a prophecy that says he and King James will defeat King Edward. George says he'll join Kendall if the local prophet, an old man who dwells in a cave, can also promise victory. George dresses his young servant Willy as a girl and sends him with a message for Bettris. Bettris's father falls in love with Willy and welcomes him into the house. George, meanwhile, disguises himself as the old prophet in the forest and prophesizes that Kendall and his men will be defeated by George a Green. He fights them, slays one of them, and takes Kendall and Lord Bonfild prisoner. He turns them over to the Justice and meets Bettris, who has sneaked out of her house.
King Edward shows up, pardons the rebels at George's request, and reconciles with King James. Maid Marian, who is jealous of Bettris, makes Robin Hood promise to beat him, so they go to Wakefield with Scarlet and Much the Miller's Son. Jenkin the Clown comes to Wakefield with a staff on his shoulders, and a shoemaker informs him that "here is a custome held, / That none shall passe with his staffe on his shoulders, / But he must have a bout with me." Jenkin doesn't feel like fighting, so they all go off to the alehouse instead. George defeats Scarlet and Much, fights Robin Hood, and finally makes a truce when he finds out who his opponent is. ("Robin Hood? next to king Edward / Art thou leefe to me.") King Edward and King James go to Wakefield in disguise and confront the shoemaker, who makes them trail their staves behind them. George calls them base-minded peasants and fights all the shoemakers in town. They recognize him after he beats them down and invite him to join them for a pot of ale. The Earl of Warwick brings out the king's garments, and everyone falls to their knees. "Come, masters, all fellowes," says the king. "Nay, Robin, you are the best man at the boord to day. / Rise up George." The king asks George if he can do anything for him, and George says he wants to marry Grime's daughter Bettris. Grime agrees, as long as he can marry the disguised Willy. Willy reveals that he is a boy, but Grime says he is content for George to have his daughter and his lands. King Edward offers to make George a knight, but George replies, "Then let me live and die a yeoman still: / So was my father, so must live his sonne. / For tis more credite to men of base degree, / To do great deeds, than men of dignitie."
Thoughts: This one dates from 1599, which makes it almost exactly contemporary with The Shoemaker's Holiday, Henry V, and Heywood's Edward IV plays, and I'm seeing a lot of common threads -- though George a Green is more of a feel-good play than any of the above, even TSH. The disguised-king scenes here are mostly warm and fuzzy -- in contrast to the far more problematic sequences in Heywood and Shakespeare. George's refusal of a knighthood reminds me of Matthew Shore's in 1 Edward IV, but without the baggage of future betrayal that makes the scene so painful in Heywood. This is a tale of loyalty rewarded, and all of the royal and noble characters are essentially decent (including Kendall, or George's request that Kendall judge him by his own measure wouldn't work). Kendall's claim that he "rise[s] not against king Edward / But for the poore that is opprest by wrong" is manifestly hypocritical (in fact, he's the one doing the oppressing), which makes for a nice tidy homily against rebellion -- but at the same time, we've got a pinner striking an earl and calling the king a coward, and getting away with it. The underlying debate, I think, is "do we judge a man by his birth or by his deeds" -- and interestingly, George makes the argument at the end that birth does matter, at least to a degree.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
moving
I have arranged movers, a full fifteen days before I have to be out of here. This makes me very happy because ordinarily I don't do this whole Planning and Organization thing very well at all. Now all I have to do is get everything boxed up before the movers turn up. I've almost started.
I don't think it's really sunk in that I'm leaving University of Basketball Town, which has been home for more than a quarter of my life. I was sixteen when I came here for the first time -- my It's Academic coach was a U. of Basketball graduate and we were going to a tournament in Next City Over, with lots of time left over to explore. Well, I was a sheltered kid from the suburbs, and it was my first time on my own in a real college town in all its quirky glory, and I bought a copy of Rolling Stone from 1975 in one of the used book shops and had Indian food for the first time, and thought, "This is the kind of place where I want to live." And so it was. That particular bookshop is long gone, and I know now that there are many better places to get Indian food around here, but I was right about the part that mattered.
New SLAC is in a much smaller town -- one with a certain amount of historic charm and a real honest-to-God soda fountain, so I'm sure there will be compensations. But then, I went to undergrad in a town that is pretty much synonymous with historic charm, and the truth is that there isn't much to do there (it was better in my day, when we had a cool art-house movie theater right off campus, but even that has turned into a business targeting the tourist crowd). We found stuff to do, as I'm sure the kids at New SLAC probably do -- much of it illegal or downright loony (grits wrestling in a kiddie wading pool, anyone?), but professors don't get invited to that sort of thing.
Um. Not really sure where this post is going, except that writing it is a nice alternative to putting things in boxes, but anyway, I hope I like the new place as much as I like where I live now.
I don't think it's really sunk in that I'm leaving University of Basketball Town, which has been home for more than a quarter of my life. I was sixteen when I came here for the first time -- my It's Academic coach was a U. of Basketball graduate and we were going to a tournament in Next City Over, with lots of time left over to explore. Well, I was a sheltered kid from the suburbs, and it was my first time on my own in a real college town in all its quirky glory, and I bought a copy of Rolling Stone from 1975 in one of the used book shops and had Indian food for the first time, and thought, "This is the kind of place where I want to live." And so it was. That particular bookshop is long gone, and I know now that there are many better places to get Indian food around here, but I was right about the part that mattered.
New SLAC is in a much smaller town -- one with a certain amount of historic charm and a real honest-to-God soda fountain, so I'm sure there will be compensations. But then, I went to undergrad in a town that is pretty much synonymous with historic charm, and the truth is that there isn't much to do there (it was better in my day, when we had a cool art-house movie theater right off campus, but even that has turned into a business targeting the tourist crowd). We found stuff to do, as I'm sure the kids at New SLAC probably do -- much of it illegal or downright loony (grits wrestling in a kiddie wading pool, anyone?), but professors don't get invited to that sort of thing.
Um. Not really sure where this post is going, except that writing it is a nice alternative to putting things in boxes, but anyway, I hope I like the new place as much as I like where I live now.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Summer reading: The Garland of Good Will and Strange Histories, by Thomas Deloney
These are some pretty strange histories, all right. I mean, how often do you get to read a collection of ballads that includes "The murthering of King Edward the second, being killed with a hot burning spit," the travails of the Duchess of Suffolk as she flees from the evil Catholics, and a prose dialogue between ladies disguised as shepherds because they're hiding from Wat Tyler? "Eclectic" doesn't begin to cover it, really. Deloney seems to have a particular interest in the reigns of Henry II and Edward II, but otherwise, anything goes.
This is a version of history where women matter. Out of 38 ballads in the two collections, women are the speakers, heroines, or major supporting figures in at least 21. A striking number of them are the objects of a king's illicit desire. Most of the time, there's a definite division between Good and Bad women. Victims command sympathy, and those with historical and political agency are stigmatized; Deloney is much harder on Mistress Shore, who confesses, "Like a Queene I raigned / And many poore mens suits / By me was obtained*" than he is on Rosamund, who just hangs out in her labyrinth until she's poisoned. Nevertheless, there are some interesting exceptions: Deloney's longest ballad is on the subject of Judith and Holofernes. Queen Eleanor in Strange Histories," though Deloney blames her for fomenting wars and poisoning Rosamund, redeems herself by ruling wisely and well while her son is in Jerusalem: "And while she had this charge in hand, / her care was great in government. / And many a prisoner then in holde, / she set at large from yrons colde." (Although this section is in third person, Eleanor herself is the speaker for much of this ballad -- Deloney seems to reserve this voice for the repentant sinner most of the time. Mistress Shore and Gurney and Matrevers are also first-person narrators.)
Deloney experiments with a couple of different characterizations of Queen Isabella. A ballad in The Garland of Good Will emphasizes the "griefes and injuries" of "our noble Queene" (she is definitely an active heroine here, but she's forgiven for it because she weeps very prettily). On the other hand, the "dissembling Queene" of Strange Histories is cruel and vengeful, qualities that are tied to her femininity: "such is a womans deadly hate: / When fickle fancie follows change, / and lustfull thoughts delight to range."
All in all, an interesting read -- I'm not quite sure what I want to do with this stuff, but I'm glad to have read it.
This is a version of history where women matter. Out of 38 ballads in the two collections, women are the speakers, heroines, or major supporting figures in at least 21. A striking number of them are the objects of a king's illicit desire. Most of the time, there's a definite division between Good and Bad women. Victims command sympathy, and those with historical and political agency are stigmatized; Deloney is much harder on Mistress Shore, who confesses, "Like a Queene I raigned / And many poore mens suits / By me was obtained*" than he is on Rosamund, who just hangs out in her labyrinth until she's poisoned. Nevertheless, there are some interesting exceptions: Deloney's longest ballad is on the subject of Judith and Holofernes. Queen Eleanor in Strange Histories," though Deloney blames her for fomenting wars and poisoning Rosamund, redeems herself by ruling wisely and well while her son is in Jerusalem: "And while she had this charge in hand, / her care was great in government. / And many a prisoner then in holde, / she set at large from yrons colde." (Although this section is in third person, Eleanor herself is the speaker for much of this ballad -- Deloney seems to reserve this voice for the repentant sinner most of the time. Mistress Shore and Gurney and Matrevers are also first-person narrators.)
Deloney experiments with a couple of different characterizations of Queen Isabella. A ballad in The Garland of Good Will emphasizes the "griefes and injuries" of "our noble Queene" (she is definitely an active heroine here, but she's forgiven for it because she weeps very prettily). On the other hand, the "dissembling Queene" of Strange Histories is cruel and vengeful, qualities that are tied to her femininity: "such is a womans deadly hate: / When fickle fancie follows change, / and lustfull thoughts delight to range."
All in all, an interesting read -- I'm not quite sure what I want to do with this stuff, but I'm glad to have read it.
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