How the last few weeks of the thesis got me feeling rn
If anyone wants to know how the final months of my phd are going, I spent five hours yesterday evening listening to Dies Irae on repeat while translating and cross-comparing nineteenth century translations of early modern Irish texts just to adjust A SINGLE SENTENCE in my thesis.
Being a speaker of modern Irish who engages with earlier literature is just shouting 'leathan le leathan is caol le caol' at the dead and boy do they not hear
Scribe to those assembled: SEd EGO QUi sCrIpsI hANc hiSTORIAm aUt UERiuS fabUlAM quIbUsdam FIDEM iN hac hiSTORia AUt FaBUlA NOn AcCoMModo. QUaeDam enIm ibi SUNt PrAEstRigia dEmOnuM, qUaeDaM AuTem figmEntA poETiCA, quaEdam SimILIA uErO, quaEdAM nOn, QUAEDAm aD dElECTaTiOnem sTULTorUm
everyone else (read: me) just here for a good time:
I just know the Book of Leinster/Recension II scribe was the Jenny Joyce of the twelfth century