A commenter excised from a previous thread, which had sufficiently doused its participants in the formalin of stupidity, and begged shame and eternity to shut its ass down:

While you attempt to be articulate and you obviously have an excellent grasp on high-level appropriate vocabulary, your arguments hold little to no merit because you do not state enough clear facts. What little facts you do allude to are mucked down in your long trades and rants. So, for the short of it: Try again.

The above comment I just posted is verbatim what I would say to any of my many AP student-writers. Oh yes, and I always end on a positive encouraging note, so I will stick with my traditional ending and say, “Keep trying to improve and diminish your writing flaws with daily practice!” A blog is a great venue for that!

-C. Ruggio, Advanced placement English instructor

My reply is lifted entirely from William Faulkner’s “Blow A Blue Fire Out Your Ass”.

She had gathered her students into neat rows to tell them the purpose of their language was to consolidate their placement in the vast skeletal system of the world of work, where a calcified indifference to the music of their passage through life as perhaps an ankle bone or knee-joint, but never a cervical or temporal bone, was their sole absolution for the refinements of accredited stupidity triggering an oscillation in their allotted capsule between two enormous voids, an ignorance of the myths that shielded them from their collective past, and the delusion that these same myths would sustain them against the end of their unremarkable lives: heedless, small, unmusical, unmourned; secure in the benediction their English was sufficiently advanced to kill it and allow it to stiffen- a frozen bird at the base of a window; that further development would place their future careers as Burger King managers, second shift supervisors at the Goodyear plant, or stenographers for the local iteration of the Womack newspaper publishing chain in the unquantifiable employability limbo of “ just too fucking educated to live in the vacuous soul-murdering ranch-dressing and hush-puppy fed recessive gene pool of motherfucking Lynchburg, VA”, and she struck the barest shimmer of poetry from them, like whittling a bunion from a metatarsal.

Advertisements