Yesterday was my last intensive class for the summer. After a marathon session of twenty-six odd short presentations, the Professor of my management class decided to leave us with a reminder of why we all chose this field in the first place - he read to us the end of New Zealand author Margaret Mahy's "The Librarian and the Robbers," from her 1978 children's book The Great Piratical Rumbustification, with illustrations by Quentin Blake. What a classy way to wrap things up (and what a cool book besides; Widener has a copy in the Depository which I've already requested)!
Somewhere along the line last night, however, the sum total physical and psychic ramifications of spending a whole month like an academic Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon all overwhelmed me at once and my body simply shut down. It was all I could do to drag myself back from a drink after class with my colleagues and drive home to the North Shore, where I crawled into bed broken. This morning I felt a little better, but whatever momentum I started the day with has long since petered out by now, and the catnap under a tree in Harvard Yard on my lunchbreak seems to have done more harm than help.
I just hope I don't sleep through my stop on the commuter rail on the ride home this evening!
p.s. I forgot to explain the meaning of the cryptic title of this post: back when I used to do a lot of rock climbing - a sport which goes a little heavy on the masochism, to say the least. One of my climbing buddies had a way of summing up why he did what he did by comparing it to a guy who kept hitting himself in the head with a hammer. When asked by a passerby why on Earth he would do such a thing as that, he replied, "Because it feels so good when I stop!"
Indeed.
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