Essay Test: What are the limits (of reason)?

The following essay was submitted to highly selective colleges and universities.

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Grandma stated in about the rats again today. The six-foot ones. I think it comes from her childhood need to tell stories for attention. Wants me to write a story about her relative who was captured by pirates, dragged around the world, and attacked by man-sized rates. Seems to think writing is magic, that I can just snap my fingers and have a story. My only comment was, “If the cats were that big, I’d hate to see what the cats look like.” I had this strange emotion I can’t quite classify. Sadness, maybe? Despair?

Learned about an interesting species—ficus trees. They exist by wrapping themselves around other trees, taking their food supplies, and eventually killing them. They have been outlawed in some places because they grow under sidewalks and fracture the cement. Fascinating.

Had an interesting discussion today in English. Compared naturalism and Existentialism. Mr. S was arguing that the mind is more than the sum of its arts. Later, Linda said, “Well, sure. There’s the soul, too. That’s what he means.” Spare me, please. I thought we were talking about the unconscious.

Talked to Andrew. He was talking about love. I told him the Chinese have no single ideogram for 'romantic love' and I thought they were right not to. He was not pleased.

Mr. S read my essay out loud in class today as an example of good organization. I was quite pleased. Still prefer creative writing.

ficus tree

Talked to Kathy about Matt. Told her that I thought his feelings center around “aspiration”. I represent what he aspires to be—intellectual, scholarly, hard-working and in that sense his feelings aren’t quite real or valid. She says I should let my heart lead, not my head. She never understands.

Talked to Matt. He was playing Mr. Intellectual, telling me how his music had great lyrics. Meaningful, uplifting. “I don’t want lyrics to lift me out of my seat, I told him. I want them to drag me across the room, out the door, and into the jungle.” Have no idea where that came from. I think Matthew was shocked too. He called my name in a way as if I’d told him I was pregnant.

 He’s another one who thinks writers are magical. I’ve tried to tell him it’s simply a craft. He says it’s a gift, which I think is his excuse for being too lazy to work at it.

Dreamt last night that I was skating on a new sidewalk. Suddenly the ground erupted under my feet, and tree roots started twisting up through the cement into the air like tentacles.

Roland Barthes

Said Goodbye to George yesterday. He’s moving to another state. It’s funny, but I keep thinking of him as George the Writer, not George the Manager—thinking of the times he counseled me on colleges, discussions we had about writing and how his criticism of my story was the best that I got. It is very dangerous, because I was thinking of the times he was trying to show an interest in his employees, thinking he really was interested that we did have something to talk about. And I recall when we said goodbye, thinking how his words were so writerish; when I hugged him, his saying “It’s been good--,” but not finishing, “—working with you,” just leaving it blank, letting me fill in the words, me knowing then that we weren’t employees, but writers, not just understanding it, but feeling it, hearing only the words that were writerwords, that were unsaid.

I don’t quite know what it means. Seems highly significant though.

Was interviewed today for the school paper about my article being published. Started out giving them my usual speech about writing as a craft. Got up to the point of “writers are just like everyone else,” and just quit. Voice just fades. I don’t know. Never had that happen before. Words seem funny to me now. No longer palpable. They always seem to be wrapping around each other, twisting into new things.

Went shopping with Kathy. She was complaining. “Everyone thinks that as soon as they can write they’ll be divine or something, “she said. I said nothing.

Dreamt I lived I the jungle. I stood there until the trees grew up around me and I was one of them. Then Mr. S. was teaching lass in the trees, the students whispering and swinging in the branches. “Reason is impotent to deal with human nature,” he kept saying. “Too true,” I had said.

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Questions

Rate this essay from 1 -5 with 5 being the best. Can you justify why you gave it the rating you did?

Is this students smart Is she too smart for her wow good? What does this last cliche really mean?

Does this essay have a thesis? What is it?

Is this writer not humble enough? What does humble enough mean?

Should the writer get marks off for writing sentence fragments? Why or why not?

Does this writer have a distinguishable voice? Can you describe it?

Is this an informal or formal essay?

Is this a structured or unstructured essay?

Does this writer deserve the recognition she has received for her words? Why or why not?

Does this essay intimidate you? Does this writer intimidate you? What is the difference?

This essay is too long to fit in the Common Application guidelines. What should be cut?

Does this essay answer any of the Common Applications prompts for this year?