The writer of an article Friday's issue of The Daily Princetonian dealing with the change in course enrollment schedule fabricated a statement regarding a student interviewed for the article.
The semester has begun. With it, the piles of required reading on every student's desk have begun to grow.
For many years, racial affinity organizations like the Black Student Union have helped students from diverse backgrounds adjust to life at Princeton through their mentoring programs.
Our gray minivan hummed along the winding single-lane New Jersey roads and the air conditioning blazed as I watched tall, old trees whiz by my window.
At the time of writing, it is Thursday, Sept. 11, 2008. It is the first day of classes for Princeton, and for me it is the first day of classes of the last year I will spend as an undergrad.
Right now, the primary goal of the residential colleges is make the Class of 2012 feel right at home on campus, and the University has its eyes firmly fixed on this overriding goal.
Princeton is a different place in late summer. Students and faculty are for the most part enjoying their last few weeks of freedom before the treadmill starts again, so one might naively assume that the town is even quieter than it is earlier in the summer when sports camps and institutes for the (presumably not athletically) gifted fill the campus with kids who barely qualify as teenagers.But Princeton has become a tourist attraction.
Over the past three years at Princeton, every time I saw another student publication at my door, a demonstration in front of Frist, or heard of our administration's continued support for the academic freedom of Peter Singer, I became more confident that our marketplace of ideas was alive and well.I was also impressed by the appropriately restrained reaction on the part of the administration during both of the major free speech controversies that have occurred while I have been a student.
Before I say anything else, I want you to go into your facebook.com profiles and take out all of the things that sound silly and pretentious.
I am a CEO. No, I don't drive to the Hamptons in my Bentley, have an American Express Centurion Card or wear bespoke shirts from Jermyn Street.
From the ground, the scene at the Democratic National Convention in Denver reminded me a little of Dennis Kucinich at a forum for presidential hopefuls: The attendees desperately wanted to get noticed.
My eyes were bloodshot from staring at a computer screen eight inches from my face. My wrists were sore and swollen, the first stages of early-onset carpal tunnel syndrome, from typing 10,000 words.
I returned to my room a week ago Monday to find a few flyers shoved under my door. Expecting the usual advertisements for upcoming events and maybe a take-out menu or two, I was surprised to find a small pink slip of paper.
It started one December morning freshman year. I was eating breakfast in the Forbes Dining Hall, and it was one of the first times I read The New York Times.
In the last month, how many of you have read four books or more for your own pleasure?" I asked the students in my NES 201: Introduction to the Middle East precept.
