I have as one of my—not larger failings, though it is preeminent in its own group—more troubling habits an outstanding inability to begin writing in anything I deem important. The prospect daunts me. I can construct outlines, but from the moment I begin to craft the first sentence, turning it over and over in my head like Camus's civil servant in The Plague, I am able to place to place few words before the well runs dry and I, unsatisfied, consider revisions to the meager amount that I have already written, again like the unfortunate M. Grand.
I write now in the midst of a lecture, writing’s previous importance now amusingly reversed into a distraction from the incomprehensible tedium.
That, in brief, explains everything. Anything it does not explain is not worth knowing. From my sputtering start on the GMAT to the slow, if erratic more than glacial, rate of posting.
There, I assuage your vanity, revealing that my concern for your regard of me is paramount in my thoughts and considerations. I offer these small sketches as a way to win your favor; consider them as little tokens for your enjoyment that I offer with a desire to supplicate.
I have begun imitating Clamence. The end is near.
But in his spirit, I offer you that most prized item: Judgment. A few glimpses thereof follow.
Guy 1: "A pink shirt? That's too flashy"
Guy 2: "What was he thinking?"
Guy 1: "Yeah."
Guy 2: "Yeah. This is a banking house, not a fashion house"
Guy 1: "Yeah."