To love a TV show is to know one of two things: Either it will eventually leave you, or you will eventually leave it. There’s no middle ground for the committed. Once you’re in, you’re in, and you’re going to be in until the thing is canceled or until you lose interest because you’ve either figured out all of the show’s tricks or it’s just not the same anymore. That show you loved more than anything? It will eventually feel sort of old and pointless to you after a while, and you’ll have moved on to some new thing that feels fresher but will inevitably disappoint you somewhere down the line. And so it goes. You’ll someday remember that show you loved with such intensity—it will probably be off the air by this point—and you’ll wonder idly why they don’t make ’em like that anymore. The answer is because you’re not who you were anymore, and you can’t fall for a show like that because you’re no longer the same person.
Sometimes, you need to be among the postgraduates, we agree. Sometimes you need to feel them alongside you, full of life, full of brilliance. It’s like swimming with dolphins, W. says. It’s like snorkelling through a shoal of fish. You feel tiny electrical shocks on your skin. Your hair feels as though it’s standing on end. Ah, what joy of brilliance they show! What fleetness of the mind! Postgraduates are the angels of the academic world, we agree. They’re between worlds — mediators between the heaven of full-time lecturers and the netherworld of the undergraduate… They’ve fled from the world into academia, but they know they will most likely find themselves back where they came from, as though they’d dreamt up the entirety of their postgraduate lives. Lars Iyer, Exodus (via rogueish)
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