Humor me.

I recall a brutal lecture on Confucian theory but I rarely pay much attention to the world around me, and consequently lack confidence in the veracity of my memory. Thankfully web publishing is pretty lenient when it comes to fact-checking, which is sort of discouraging; I routinely stumble on grammatical errors in the opening paragraphs of articles posted on websites I respect, and bristle when the heavy hand of an editor is revealed in spasmodic chunks of narrative.

I remember a fiery professor of theology reduced to passionate fits and starts of impotent rage in his attempts to convey the Confucian concept of true beauty. I take great liberties in paraphrasing his angry admonition that beauty is not debatable, it is not skin-deep and it most certainly is not in the eyes of any fucking beholders. True beauty is a verifiable constant, and your dissent is proof you have not cultivated the necessary harmony with rén to recognize it.

I hated Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance; what began as a curiously engaging roadtrip narrative ended as an obtuse deconstruction of Quality, and I pushed myself to finish the weathered paperback out of sheer spite. At the time I felt certain a life in pursuit of Quality needed no justification, that chasing excellence and a paycheck were not mutually exclusive.

That certainty has waned in the past few months, and I marvel at the sacrifices I have made for the sake of expediency. I accepted too many responsibilities for my meager abilities this semester, and my coursework suffered. I work hard to prove myself a brilliant and celeritous writer in the office, and the quality of my writing has dropped precipitously. Near the climax of every feel-good family comedy there comes a moment of anagnorisis when the protagonist realizes what a fool he or she has been to focus on material sucess to the exclusion of truth, love and (you guessed it) beauty. As a child the choice seemed obvious, but confronted with the opportunity to compromise quality for quantity I find the same old ethical handholds so stable and strong in the dark superiority of adolescence proving a trifle less sturdy by the light of maturity.