Of the 4 essays which I have written this term, not one have I done as well as I had hoped for. In truth, I have done beneath the common standard. It is deplorable and disheartening. For had I not arrived at this new town full of exuberance, and excitement, and confidence? I have always thought my fluency in the language to at least render me an advantage in essay-writing, and sometimes, even more boldly, that the tutors shall be impressed by the things I write. But behold, to what foul-smelling pits I have been thrown, scoffed and laughed at by the academics who sit at the top:”Child, you have deceived yourself, thought too highly of your abilities.” Have I? Perhaps they are right. Perhaps this supposed talent in writing is no more than a talent in meretricious ornamentation; for which no astute reader would ever praise. I cannot write about things that matter, things of substance; but only trivial ones, ethereal ones that exists in the heart, and which if given to the world, the world will think it nonsense.


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