Of Mice and Men is over. I don’t have to look at that bloody book again. I would burn it, but I believe that Steinbeck’s work needs to be respected, despite the fact that I’d rather be force-fed the pages than study it again.
Contrary to popular opinion, I thought that the exam was a nightmare. Not so much the questions, but my own answers were awful. Awful. I’m not going to dwell on the past, and celebrate the fact that Of Mice and Men is banished from my life.
An Inspector Calls is a brilliant play, and luckily, GCSE English Literature hasn’t driven me to the pit of despair with this particular tome. I still managed to cock up my answer though. Alas.
I hated Of Mice and Men while I studied it. I still hate it. It’s my least favourite of Steinbeck’s books (Cannery Row sitting on the top spot), and I! am! so! done!
I don’t even care that my exam is the essay equivalent that something’s that just crawled out of a hole and died. In the words of Robert Icke (I was seeking solace in sugar and Vanya post-nightmare, okay), it took me ‘several failed attempts to articulate what I meant’, and in the end, I didn’t even get to articulate what I meant anyway, because I ran out of bloody time. Ah well.