A few hours to attend my exam grade and die within minutes of sleep I pause to reflect on my time at university (hopefully not the last, to re-enter the baths of Republic).
The truth is that I must be one per cent of Arts graduates wanting to travel and do not re-read again. I say it and deny it tomorrow. After four years of fake friends, teachers, scholars and mediocre schools I wonder if this is what I want forever. My ideas come and go, but I have a feeling that sets the tone for all my reading retrospectives: the bitterness of graduating from a university is more committed to the tariff that education.
If gentlemen, I speak of
I leave with the feeling of a school divided by the ego and fantasy, excellent teachers and in other cases, proudly mediocre. However I find good things, but that will be later, since, at this point, I must be in a box full of negativity.
But why literature saved (and pissed) my life? It's a very touching I'm doing. I think the study and reading of life, that is literature has been to study a Bachelor of souls. I think more than a degree I have earned this distinction: that of a human being. I say this with the conviction that we live in a sick world and alienated. Nor can I forget the end of the novel Enrique Araya and the feeling that gives me a little more flesh and blood every day.
On a summer night, listening to Coldplay, it gets difficult. What was even more in a race he lost great students. How many of our colleagues defected? Brave, as learned in time that the literature might fuck their stock!
In this regard I must be clear: this is a logical game, but a reflection after seeing Morandé with Company. Reader tell me how be licensed in literature in a country that does not read? In a country that, hopefully, read full LUN. Will I have future? And if my life sucks literature definitely always find advice in my bedroom on a wooden surface, draped in sheets and leaves, with a tempting title ...
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