What do I care about the unfulfilled love life
of a fictional 19th century writer? Nothing, I never did.
What do I care about the unfulfilled love life
of a 20th century Londoner? Nothing, if it’s written with such
corniness (I would have probably answered “very little” but, for the sake of symmetry,
I’ll stick with “nothing”).
What do I care about the research of a
struggling London academic? Nothing, now that I have finished my Ph.D. and have
put aside “real” academia – at least for now.
What do I care about the role of private money
in advancing academic scholarship? Nothing, and – personally – I wonder whether
public money should be spent for said advancement in the humanities (for much
that I’d like to be bold enough to claim that public money shouldn’t fund
research in the humanities, however, I probably believe it should – otherwise
we’d just become fairly hairless monkeys in a couple of generations)
For all that, the last page of the book is one
of absolute beauty – but you do have to overcome 400 lengthy ones before that.
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