(I'm in a navy blue cranny of Davis Library right now, listening to Alexsandr Raskatov, "Aus Den Leben von W.A.M," having trouble expressing my feelings about how H.D. refigures the Virgin Mary as a goddess of the new world order in "Trilogy."
Being a journalism major right now has not been very good for my anxiety levels. Because all we talk about in my classes and everything I read just confirms that we are on the brink of the Journalistic APOCALYPSE and all of the print media will soon be DEAD, and this includes BOOKS. Essentially, what I love most--the written word printed on a page of paper--has received, or is receiving, its last death blow from the grim reaper, the World Wide Web. And soon we will begin to forget what pens are supposed to do.
(I left my goat cheese at Guion's house and I wish I had it right now. My diet lately has become increasingly rabbit-like: I eat handfuls of raw spinach with handfuls of dried berries and nuts for lunch. Plain spinach is deeply fulfilling, though. I can taste health between my teeth.)
Chad and Nick were trying to console me about all of these fears on Friday night. Or, perhaps, Chad was trying to console me; Nick was just agreeing with me. "Yes, books; they will soon be no more." Chad kept saying that the economy would correct itself and that there would always be a demand for the written word, but I kept shrieking, "Yes, but WHO WILL PAY THEM? The Internet is MURDERING publishers and authors, not to mention reporters. And don't even get me started about what the 24-hour news cycle has done to copy editing! It's the END, Chad. It's the END."
I feel like a little voice in a room of doomsday prophets. But doesn't anyone believe in the printed word anymore? I am still clinging to this last credo: NO ONE WANTS TO CRAWL IN BED WITH A KINDLE.
Michael Scott: "Why do you keep a diary?"
Dwight Schrute: "To keep secrets from my computer."
Exactly. I'm at least not the only one who still keeps a physical diary.
That's all I have to say about that right now. It would be indecorous to start crying over the keys of my laptop in Davis Library, crying for Gutenberg and the hypocritical irony of the fact that I am publishing this on the Internet...