I’ve long held a firm belief that once you start fussing over the inadequate amount of time for finishing piles of readings you oblige yourself to do, your academic occupation has a budding potential to take flight. Whatever dazzling pictures you have of your near future when you’re certain that once the attitude is set, nothing can be in the way, something still stands in the way nonetheless, and with a wry smile it holds a scintillating knife, ready to kill your ephemeral ideal with no vestige of mercy whatsoever.
For a well-organized expert will reduce his words into extreme brevity, precise and nail-on-the-forehead. A woeful disorderly one like me will eventually extend his sentence so tediously, that a comma or a dot can hardly finds its niche to fit in. Stripping bare of the superfluous rhetoric, it is exactly organization that I should do, with which also creates a distinction between a substantial consequence and a eternal illusion.
I also learned the importance of organization through listening to my record collection these days. For I’ve always loved songs that are remain in a rudimentary scale. Songs that are not deliberately polished, programmed-in or needlessly adorned. The raw spirit that the music is created in its embryonic stage should be preserved, but it is hence the problem often occurs. Oftener, music which stresses too much to retain its originality will more or less appear scattered and crude. Simplification, I presume, is the quintessence of the music, yet the most difficult, the most inimitable. Pardon for my reiteration, but Syd Barrett and The Rolling Stones, by far, are whom I count masters of.
To take those precedents as exemplar, it is needless to stress more of the significance of keeping a organized schedule. However I do detest the idea of having everything tidied or tabulated or calculated or evaluated. To choose between being a candle flame or the smoke of a fag, I opt for the latter without thinking more.
The vision of a person with his bags bulged with books yet end up still as an imbecile dreads me, which also reminds me of a story I encountered somewhere, with some lonely beggar dying in a library reading-room due to an empty stomach, and his desk is still piled with books. By whom and what title is that book in question?