(1) I'm a Celtics fan.
(2) While watching (and yelling at) the game last night, I was leafing through Jerome McGann's Poetics of Sensibility, and found a Marxian reading of the marginalia scribbled into a volume of L.E.L.'s poetry by some random previous owners, consisting of "Yes." and "My heart." I'm saying, there's a whole chapter about the commodification of poetry based on those three uncommunicative words. I was already annoyed (as I generally am) with McGann with his stance as Grand Poobah of Literature, both in style (like, he's more Harold Bloom than Harold Bloom or something) and substance (do you know what the big problem with feminists when they revive long-lost ladies' texts? They never pronounce on the aesthetic value! Which McGann will do, and how! He'll rescue lady-texts in ways that ladies never dreamed of! Thanks, dude!). But holy Flaming Touchdown Jeebus, any reading of any flavor of three little scribbled words is just jumping the literary shark. Must be nice to just make stupid shit up and get it published.
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