Отправила июньскую рецензию и вспомнила (в порядке самокритики) сцену из романа The Big U by Neal Stephenson. Студентка приходит к преподавателю ругаться насчет отметки.
Now really, if you want to give him an A for that it's up to you, but you can you then give me a B? Mine was three times as long, I had an introduction, conclusion, an outline, no grammatical errors, no misspelled words—what do you expect?"
"This is a very good question," said Embers. He took a long draw on his pipe. "What is a grade? That is the question." He chuckled, but she apparently didn't get it. "Some teachers grade on curves. You have to be a math major to understand your grade! But forget those fake excuses. A grade is actually a form of poetry. It is a subjective reaction to a learner's work, distilled and reduced down to its purest essence—not a sonnet, not a haiku, but a single letter. That's remarkable, isn't it?"
"Look, that's just groovy. But you have to grade in such a way that I'm shown to be a better writer than he is. Otherwise it's unfair and unrealistic."
Embers recrossed his legs and spent a while sucking his pipe back into a blaze. His learner picked up a paper and fanned smoke away from her face. "Mind if I smoke?" he said.
"Your office," she said in a strangled voice.
Fine, if she didn't want to assert herself. He finally decided on the best approach. "You aren't necessarily a better Writer. You called some of them functional illiterates. Well those illiterates, as you called them, happen to have very expressive prose voices. Remember that in each person's own dialect he or she is perfectly literate. So in the sense of having escaped orthodoxy to be truly creative, they are highly advanced wordsmiths, while you are still struggling to break free of grammatical rules systems. They express themselves to me and I react with little one-letter poems of my own—the essence of grading! Poetry! And being a poet I'm particularly well suited for it.
Профессор - гнусный старикашка, а девушка права, но я, кажется, сужу по тому же принципу :((( и ни один отрывок не отозвался в моей поэтичной душе желанием присудить ему призовое место.

А в гольф в четверг играем?