Remember that her English literature professors recognized her talent. Remember that a major publishing company offered her a half million dollar advance. Remember that she was admitted to the most prestigious higher education institute on the planet. Remember that before you scuff at her achievements.

She has apologized. Accept her apology and move on. She has so much more to offer, if only we, as a community, stop holding her to ever arbitrary standards of excellence. Nobody's perfect. As it goes, Kaavya is about as close as they get. Far better that we encourage her talent than torment her more than the Promethean impulse which already beckons to her artistic spirit. There is no creature more sensitive than the artist--sensitive to the joys of life, as some have spitefully argued, yes--but sensitive also to its sorrows. Must we drive her to madness, to shame, to degradation, to despair, to ruin, to damnation, to suicide, and to ridicule before we are satisfied? Is it not enough that she is human for us to love her? If you prick her, does she not bleed? If you tickle her, does she not laugh? If you poison her, does she not die? And if you wrong her, shall she not revenge?

In summary, I should like to give utterance to these prophetic and entirely original words:

I see the Crimson, and the Times, the Post, the Independent, the Tribune, and xoxohth, long ranks of renewed oppressors who have risen on the destruction of this tender flower, perishing by this same retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its current use. I see a beautiful woman and brilliant novelist rising from this woeful wasteland, and in her struggle to be truly successful, in her triumphs and defeats, though long long to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the inevitable birth, eventually making expiation for itself and wearing out.

I see the literary genius for whom McCafferty lays down her copyright, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that New Jersey which she shall see no more. I see Kaavya with a second book upon her bosom, which bears her name. I see her father, worn and tired, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all humanity in his healing office, and at repose. I see the good old counselor, so long their friend, in ten months' time enriching them with all she has, and passing tranquilly to an office

I see that 170 specialty shops hold sanctuary in her heart, and in the hearts of her customers, weekends hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for joy on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her agent, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honored and held sacred in the other's soul, than that half million dollar advance was in the souls of both.

I see that book which lay upon her bosom and which bore her name, published, winning its way up in that path of life which once was McCafferty's. I see it winning so well, that its name is made illustrious there by light of sales. I see the blots McCafferty threw upon it, faded away. I see it, foremost of chick-lit and bestsellers, bearing itself with a paperback that I know and golden letters, to this place--then lovely to look upon, with a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear her reading McCafferty's story, with a tender and a faltering voice.

It is a far, far better thing she does, than anything we might have done; it is far, far better rest this oopsie goes to than any Kaavya has ever known.

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5647319)

Author: majorporcupine

This is a really shameful episode for xoxohth. Here's a beautiful, intelligent, talented, fun-loving and sophisticated young woman--the type of woman who broke the glass ceiling that normalized misogyny (i.e., xoxohth) constructed, a young woman showing promise in a male-dominated field, and what do you do? Rather than celebrating her enterprising and pioneering spirit, you want to kick her down. This hiccup in her life, a mistake ANYONE could make, is an occasion for you all to jump on her and spitefully rub salt in her wounds.

Remember that her English literature professors recognized her talent. Remember that a major publishing company offered her a half million dollar advance. Remember that she was admitted to the most prestigious higher education institute on the planet. Remember that before you scuff at her achievements.

She has apologized. Accept her apology and move on. She has so much more to offer, if only we, as a community, stop holding her to ever arbitrary standards of excellence. Nobody's perfect. As it goes, Kaavya is about as close as they get. Far better that we encourage her talent than torment her more than the Promethean impulse which already beckons to her artistic spirit. There is no creature more sensitive than the artist--sensitive to the joys of life, as some have spitefully argued, yes--but sensitive also to its sorrows. Must we drive her to madness, to shame, to degradation, to despair, to ruin, to damnation, to suicide, and to ridicule before we are satisfied? Is it not enough that she is human for us to love her? If you prick her, does she not bleed? If you tickle her, does she not laugh? If you poison her, does she not die? And if you wrong her, shall she not revenge?

In summary, I should like to give utterance to these prophetic and entirely original words:

I see the Crimson, and the Times, the Post, the Independent, the Tribune, and xoxohth, long ranks of renewed oppressors who have risen on the destruction of this tender flower, perishing by this same retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its current use. I see a beautiful woman and brilliant novelist rising from this woeful wasteland, and in her struggle to be truly successful, in her triumphs and defeats, though long long to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the inevitable birth, eventually making expiation for itself and wearing out.

I see the literary genius for whom McCafferty lays down her copyright, peaceful, useful, prosperious and happy, in that New Jersey which she shall see no more. I see Kaavya with a second book upon her bosom, which bears her name. I see her father, worn and tired, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all humanity in his healing office, and at repose. I see the good old counselor, so long their friend, in ten months' time enriching them with all she has, and passing tranquilly to an office

I see that 170 specialty shops hold sanctuary in her heart, and in the hearts of her customers, weekends hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for joy on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her agent, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honored and held sacred in the other's soul, than that half million dollar advance was in the souls of both.

I see that book which lay upon her bosom and which bore her name, published, winning its way up in that path of life which once was McCafferty's. I see it winning so well, that its name is made illustrious there by light of sales. I see the blots McCafferty threw upon it, faded away. I see it, foremost of chick-lit and bestsellers, bearing itself with a paperback that I know and golden letters, to this place--then lovely to look upon, with a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear her reading McCafferty's story, with a tender and a faltering voice.

It is a far, far better thing she does, than anything we might have done; it is far, far better rest this oopsie goes to than any Kaavya has ever known.

(Knock it off with the Kaavya bashing already)

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5647334)

If someone were to steal my bike and sell it to a unsuspecting person, should we forgive her because (a) she happens to be female and (b) she happens to have got into a good school through a combination of luck on a standardized test and a lenient AA program?

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5647413)

F.

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5647345)

Author: procrastinAsian (masochism is an acquired taste.)

i realize this is flame, but it's not even entertaining flame.

F.

(Knock it off with the Kaavya bashing already)

But I worked really hard on unconsciously internalizing Dickens and Shakespeare!

Philistine Asian. This is why they should teach you reading along with the SAT.

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5647362)

http://lolharvard.ytmnd.com/

http://harvardart.ytmnd.com/

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5647347)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaavya_Viswanathan

It should be updated, xoxo style, imho.

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5647387)

http://plagiarismspinners.ytmnd.com/

http://lolharvard.ytmnd.com/

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5648443)

I was going to plagiarize that other literary classic, "Sloppy Firsts", but some bitch already took it. So I was stuck with Dickens.

(https://autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=405349&forum_id=2#5648619)