Don’t Kill ‘Frankenstein’ With Real Frankensteins at Large
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By the time I took off my mortarboard two weeks ago, my degree in English literature was de trop. Instead of a Master of Arts, I should have gotten a Master of Algorithms.
As I was pushing the rock up a hill, mastering Donne, Milton, Shakespeare, Dickens, Joyce and Mary Shelley, I failed to notice that the humanities had fallen off the cliff.
It was as if the bottle of great wine I saved to celebrate my degree was bouchonné.