A thundering blast of fresh air billowing through the shingles. Only a blistering array of theoretical ballast could sink this worthy pedantry, done at tip toe and in peek-over-shoulder mold, lest they disturb the shades of angrier academics, those with a distraught pillow to wield or a betrayed riposte to shoot off. As one searches for a gastronomic equivalent to this text - as one might, as one should, as one must - one is reminded, (or does one simply summon up?) the specter of an imbecilic rum baba, somewhat over egged, somewhat fruity, exceeding rich, ( and just like you dear reader, just at this very moment, sniffing the powder kegs - see how your nose twitches and your armpits itch at the very mention of them) and also a mite indigestible, giving rise in the querulous and those of finer stomach and less than sterner stuff, to a queasiness - nay, even that very nausea of which the master Jean Paul Sartre dedicated rather more than an epistle! Whistle this text all the way to the classroom and you will decidedly get (and thoroughly deserve!) an upper second thingy, handed out by the bewigged bewildered and berobed dean as gently s/he lifts the cadences of this place up and up and up, and utters passages from this very book which dribble from the corner of her mouth in the corner of the stage where s/he has collapsed with utter, such utter, estrangement!