Our hero, Little Artie Klein
The following is a guest contribution and reflects the author’s views alone.
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The following is a guest contribution and reflects the author’s views alone.
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There may be no one on campus who complains about their language classes more than I do. Don't get me wrong — I love Russian, and it's a beautiful language. I have so much respect for my peers, my instructors, and everyone involved in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literature. But it's just so hard. And it is my fault, obviously, for taking a difficult language. It’s a decision for which I have oscillating cycles of contentment and deep, test-related regret. Language learning is difficult. It takes an enormous amount of time, work, care, and dedication, and that’s a difficult dedication to give when there is always something else that needs attention. Still, there comes a point when you know it was all worth it.
Every semester, in the wake of midterm’s stress, there’s always one day that feels just like Christmas: the day the Office of the Registrar releases the course offerings for the upcoming semester. For me, it feels like the academic equivalent of running down the stairs on Christmas morning to discover what magically appeared under the tree overnight. There’s an element of surprise, of possibility, of newness, and even a bit of discovery shared between the two days.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Lamp. Active beginning in the early 2000s, Lamp is a Japanese band that draws on a number of disparate styles, including jazz, bedroom pop (insofar as the genre was conceived at the time), and pop rock. Blending all of these genres into something greater than the sum of its parts, Lamp writes minimally-produced songs over which the lead singer’s vocals can soar.
The day I got my acceptance letter from Princeton, I spent the rest of the night making my way through “Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief.”
Just south of Prospect Garden and just north of First College, around the art museum construction site, there’s a beautiful phenomenon of the human condition.
Editor's Note: On June 30, 2022, Technoblade passed away due to cancer. His family announced it in a video titled, in pure Technoblade fashion, “so long nerds.” He was 23 years old. The author’s reflections on the passing were appended to this essay on July 7, 2022. The original essay appears below, as published on Oct. 24, 2021.
I was recently at a small party when I found myself rushing to the bathroom, sensing that the tear in the corner of my eye was ready to burst. I shut and locked the door as fast as I could, and after a single deep breath I felt myself cry in a way I hadn’t in a long time. But then, I took another deep breath, wiped everything away with a few squares of toilet paper, and returned to my friends to say, “I’m all good” when asked how my night was going.
Are you looking for somewhere to visit over fall break? We would highly recommend the SoHo area in New York City. Here are a few spots that we’ve checked out over the past summer.
My Humanities sequence mentors had warned me to bring a friend to pick up my course books, and, like most of their endlessly helpful yet panic-inducing advice, they were correct. I found the 25 books lined up for the fall semester in the dimly lit basement of Labyrinth Books — a far cry from the bright upstairs I now yearned for.
The following is a guest contribution. If you would like to see your piece published by The Prospect, please write to us at prospect@dailyprincetonian.com.
Content Warning: This article contains descriptions of the 9/11 terrorist attacks.
A walk across the Princeton campus with attentive-enough eyes reveals it as a collection of monuments and memorials. Every stone laid, every piece of wood fitted, and every last bit that makes up this campus seems to carry with it a name or story of some sort. As students, we live and learn among arches, towers, and halls spotted with engravings, plaques, and other markers that both embody and perpetuate the history of this nation and university.
Just about a year ago, I sat at home — like I am now as I draft these words — to write about losing out on “the possibility of filling McCarter with laughter and pure joy” during Triangle’s Frosh Week Show.
I spent the past several weeks as a residential advisor for a government-sponsored summer program in my home state, Kentucky. When I attended the program as a high-school student, it changed me. At the close of this year’s program, I thought about how much I’ve changed since then.
Recently, there was an email sent to faculty by the administration with the subject line, “Important Memo about End of Term Student Stress.” The contents of the email encouraged professors to at least acknowledge the unbearable stress that we’re currently facing. However, this is an email that we see coming too late, too lackadaisically, too inadequately.