I, me.

My purpose in this article is modest: I wish merely to examine why many of us in academe are reluctant to say “I” when we write. We go to considerable lengths to avoid that “I”—even when we mean “I” and nothing else. Why do we resort to such awkward constructions as “The present study will argue that… ,” or “We shall attempt to demonstrate that… ,” or “One perceives in Sartre's hell a stylized version of lived reality… ,” rather than saying simply “I”? What are we trying to hide? What lurks within us and threatens to erupt, unloosed by this “I”? We are not dope fiends or outlaw bikers, utterly enslaved to our basest impulses. We are not troglodytes, grunting and belching our way through life. No. We are monkish folk for the most part, fully accustomed to keeping our ids in check. One doesn't often find us wallowing in the ego, and at the very least we should be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of speaking in our own voice. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]