As this is the first post on this ’ere log, I thought it might be worthwhile, before we begin, to give a brief introduction to the affair—namely, to say what it is I think this blog is meant to achieve; what I hope that it is able to avoid; and to give some indication why it is that I would ever take time (that I don’t have) to write it. First of all, this is not Pepper. Nor is it The Indicator—nor is it The Student, or the Circus, or The Amherst Review. Nor do I have any desire to write book reviews, or social analysis, or cover the news, or indulge in creativity. All of these things already exist on this campus (successfully or no), and I am quite content not to meddle in other people’s business.Second of all, in this best of all worlds that we inhabit, I’d rather speak less than more. I am not a columnist, and I would rather not become one. My prose has a tendency to over-emphasize itself, and I tire of the sound of my own voice. In fact, the only thing makes this project worthwhile for me is the possibility that I will, at the end of the day, not have to say too much on my own. But that instead, we will collaborate, and I will have the opportunity to learn from the far reaching intelligence that, despite regular appearances to the contrary, I still believe exists on this campus. Here of course, I speak of you.With this sentiment in mind, I propose to offer you what I have, which is only my thoughts—vaguely about books—in the hope of starting some worthwhile discussion. My only requests, besides your collaboration, are the following: one, that you don’t ever criticize me concerning my use of italics. My friends have intervened. I know that I have a problem, but you can’t tell a crack addict to just stop one day. There are twelve steps, and I am working on it.And two, that you be utterly outrageous. If you can, keep it clean(ish), and thoughtful, and generally accessible, but for god’s sake let loose. I, for one, plan to speak ridiculously—as the Porter has in fact—and say all the things that silly classroom pride and politics prevent. I vacillate unpredictably between a profound trust in the bounties of literature and an unmatched repulsion for so many wasted hours—it is madness—which is to say that I am in love, and plan to act with all the appropriate irresolution and bewitched intent—Huzza!Finally, if as we are discussing a piece of literature you feel that you absolutely must say something technical, please, qualify yourself; tell us all how silly you are first, pray for the strength to resist the urge, and if you still must, keep it brief. Profane before you make pretense.Yet here I am–in love:…. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.If any care to share—any lovers like myself—I’d ask this week for places where you find the sand to set your anchor down—