You Know It's Late In The Semester When...

So...Today was one of those utterly gorgeous spring days that had just a hint of summer in its warmth and sunshine.  I rode to and from work; as I was leaving, one of my students cheered me on from the window of her boyfriend's car.  Now, if she thinks that's going to get her an A... ;-)


In one of my classes, it seemed that about half of the students hadn't even begun to read A Doll's House, which I assigned last week.  I asked them why they hadn't read; they said things like, "I started to read it, but I just couldn't get into it."  All right, I can understand that, I said.  But where did you start to have trouble?, I asked.


Some of them couldn't answer.  One student yelled, "We should read the play out loud in class."  I knew what they were trying to do:  spare themselves the trouble of reading it.  But I humored them and asked for volunteers to read aloud.  Turns out, a number of students didn't even bring in their books.


I know, it's late in the semester, the weather is gorgeous and people's hormones are pumping and clothes are shedding. Under such circumstances, I can understand why some students would rather be almost anywhere but a classroom and doing almost anything else besides discussing a play.  Still, I couldn't believe how much passive-aggressive behavior I was seeing in one room.  


At least the class I taught after that one was better:  They actually read the play and were actively participating in the discussion.  

After that first class, I found myself thinking about Thomas Wolfe's description of teaching in a diploma mill.  It was in You Can't Go Home Again, a book whose high point was its title.  All right, I remember that there was a none-too-favorable description of the job or the college.  


It's been a long time since I read the book and, frankly, I've never had any desire to read it again, not even to look for the passage I've mentioned.  As I recall, that novel and the others Wolfe wrote were longer than War and Peace or Les Miserables and said about a tenth as much.  Some prof of mine assigned them--in what course, I forget.  Maybe I should find copies of those books and, the next time a student complains about how much work they're getting, I could show them a copy of one of Wolfe's books.  "I could've assigned this!," I could tell them.  What good that would do, I don't know.


Oh well.

Hallucinatory Fatigue

Now I'm at the point of unpacking things just to unpack them, and moving my bed and dresser just so I can use them. Things look fairly hideous now, but at least I can actually see some of the floor.

It was just as well that I did the work I did: The temperature fell with the rain throughout the day. Now, the temperature is right around the freezing point; the possibility of snow described by the weather forecasters just may come true.

When you're really tired, almost anything can seem like an hallucination. And almost anything looks like one when viewed through the Dali-esque mirrors formed by raindrops. Can you imagine what the moon would look like in such a setting?

The bruise that spread like a slow-motion oil slick across my left side, all the way to my navel, is fading now. However, I still have what looks like a Continental Shelf where it looked like I was pregnant with a hammerhead shark. I never had the world's most appealing body, even when I was in the best physical condition of my life, and I don't want to look like I'm in the advanced stages of cirrhosis of the liver. Wouldn't that be ironic? One of my old neighbors was a few years older than I am and had been getting drunk almost every day since she was an adolescent. She wasn't just thin; she could have hidden behind a matchstick. All right, I wouldn't want to be her. Still, why do I have to look like the long-term alcoholic?

Maybe I should become Russian. People, of all ages, genders and orientations, tell me that I have beautiful eyes. Those Russian writers could spend page after page talking about a woman's eyes. That's what they did on the good day. On a bad day, they can spend hundreds of pages sulking.

All right. I know I shouldn't lump writers, or any people, of any country or culture together. But tell me: Have you ever read a Russian novel that wasn't written by Bulgakov (sp?) that you would actually give to someone who is clinically depressed?

This isn't to say that I don't like War and Peace, Notes from The Underground, The Brothers Karmazov or The Cherry Orchard. I know, the last one is a play. But it's great for many of the same reasons as the other works I've mentioned.

By the way: Lots of people think Nabokov is a Russian writer. Yes, he was born there, but I disagree. On the other hand, I think Moby Dick and L'etranger are really Russian novels (at least in spirit), even though they were written by Melville and Camus, respectively.

Now I think of how every generation has its "World's Shortest Books" jokes. One was "How to Survive a Nuclear War." How about this for the World's Shortest Doctoral Dissertation: "Wit and Humor in 19th-Century Russian Novels."

I'll pass on that one. But if anyone out there wants to take it on, be my guest. I can just imagine some literary scholar or critic writing such a book as a kind of esoteric joke.

For that matter: What do you think of "The Esoteric Joke" as a name for a band?

See, I told you I'm tired!