No hilarious reminiscences of school Latin lessons (thanks, Mr Bird!) or of the Faculty circa 2002 (What would be the point? I witter on about that often enough in the common room anyway, and at the end of the day this is Cambridge – besides a few changes to beard lengths and architectural alterations, things haven’t changed much in ten years). Don’t worry though, I’ve got no intention of posting my Classics memoirs. Having now passed my viva, as I languish in that peculiar limbo-period of corrections and waiting for final PhD approval, I’m confronted by the rapidly-approaching end my time as a classics student and a final, enforced transition into the scary world of Real Academia or The Back-up Plan. It’s not like the world hasn’t been visited by prodigies and natural disasters in recent times.īut I’m not here to talk about the apocalypse (though mental note: there probably would be a fun blog post to be written on classical views of the end of the world). Maybe I’m being overly dismissive of the latter, though. The end of term the end of the year even, if we follow the interpretation of Mayan chronology and belief systems offered by that always-enlightening source of academic discussion that is the Internet, the end of the very world itself. We’re getting to that time of year when people start to think about endings.
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