A little story from Susannah’s Preview experience: eyes bright, face flushed, she had decided that her passion was Comparative Literature (it isn’t), and what do you know, there was an open house, at 4:30, in a place called East Pyne. Perfect, she thought, locating “Pyne,” on the map and setting off.
My father is a newsman, and during the election season he heads down to D.C. to do reporting. When Rumsfeld resigned, I knew that he would be thrilled. Donald Rumsfeld is one of my father’s least favorite Americans. When I … Read More
The first months of freshman year went by so quickly. I hooked up with the guy who became my boyfriend within days of arriving on campus, and my friends and I managed to garner the attention of what seemed like … Read More
About halfway through last August, I had the great pleasure of meeting a current Princeton senior. I have no idea if she remembers meeting me, or frankly if she even knows who I am, but that’s really beside the point. After some opening pleasantries, she asked if I knew where I’d be living. When I said that I was in Mathey, she responded that she had been in Mathey. Then I said I was in Joline.
As I enter the dark-and-slightly-dingy room that is Forbes Blackbox, my mind is suddenly assailed. Suddenly assailed by the age-old tales of up and coming bands that I picked up from Wikipedia in ye olde days of high school (when … Read More
In the current issue of ESPN The Magazine, savior-turned-pariah Maurice Clarett, the starting running back on Ohio State University’s 2002 national championship football team, describes a culture of rampant academic corruption and illegal benefits at one of the nation’s most prominent football schools.
The annual campus-wide dodgeball tournament dates back to 2005 and has quickly become an exciting Princeton tradition. With four brackets of different sizes, clubs of all kinds can enter the tournament, and the winners get nice cash prizes.
Elie Wiesel got mad at me once.
In 1996, I was attending Harvard Divinity School and taking a seminar with Wiesel at Boston University on “Literature of Prison.” The room was packed with fawning, silent, ‘participants’ who took down Wiesel’s pronouncements like they were revelation. We were reading books written from or about prison life: Dostoevsky, Solzhenitsyn, Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon, Primo Levi’s Survival in Auschwitz, Ariel Dorfman’s Death and the Maiden, Danilo Kis’ A Tomb for Boris Davidovich; a fantastic syllabus. After a while, one’s literary experience of prison becomes numbing, all bondage seems the same: the harsh labor, the capricious cruelty of guards, the rock-hardened souls
As the Umatter bus passes Tower, it is stopped by a man standing in the middle of the street. His arms are spread out above him and he’s staring into the sky as if deep in prayer.
You are so thirsty. You may even be dehydrated. Scorching was the summer that just past, and wet classes and wet friendships are not yet arrived. But relief is near. For if you are reading the Nassau Weekly—and we surmise that you are reading the Nassau Weekly—you are about to become rather damp.
