If there were truly justice at least of the poetic sort perhaps Van Gogh could have been born 75 years earlier, and in Vienna not Holland, so that when he decided to be rid of an ear he could have offered it to Beethoven neither of his working in his later years. And if a poet could arrange time travel using his license then he could just as easily have made the ear work for Beethoven. But on second thought, heaven knows what the mighty Ninth Symphony might have sounded like if Beethoven had to listen constantly to the critics.
I have to compliment you, after all you ignored me for four years in high school, condemned me to the outcasts, the geeks, the losers, the barely tolerated and then only when the Headmaster was watching.
I didn’t go to your parties, no one without an invitation ever dared, was left to the clubs no one wanted to join, but I have to say I was truly surprised, shocked almost when your letter came, reminding me of our great years of friendship, our camaraderie then, but regrettably I must decline to contribute to our class fund.
I will soon enough be in mourning for literature and philosophy for the moment is approaching when they will be lost, or I suppose simply subsumed, swallowed up in a cloud appearing momentarily then gone.
The day is rapidly approaching and if you doubt it for even a moment, go to your local library, if it has not closed, and note the diminishing number of books, replaced by computers, where everything can be found while the power is on, but just try and read there when a candle is the only light.
You really ought to pause and wonder just how different the world might be today if in that crucial moment things had gone in a wholly different direction.
A single moment can set the course for all of the moments that follow, a definite future plucked from an infinite array of possibilities.
I mean, of course, that moment when Mr. McGuire, in the guise of Walter Brooke turns to Benjamin Braddock, for what if he had said “I want to say just one word to you: Ecology” and when asked what he meant, he would add “There’s a great future in ecology. Think about it.”
The news, online and on paper, is replete with stories about adult children moving back in with their parents, whether because of the pandemic, or other circumstances, always expecting they will have a room at the ready.
Perhaps it is why we chose to have no spare rooms, sort of a preemptive strike against an ill-conceived return.
But as my cohort ages, I wonder if all too soon those news sources online, since papers will likely be gone, will feature stories about older parents moving in with their children, rooms available or not.
First, read the syllabus and buy the books we will read. Note that I have carefully selected works for which there are no Cliff Notes or their equivalent, so if you were counting on that consider yourself screwed.
When you write an essay, do not ever, let me emphasize EVER, begin by saying in my opinion, for if I wanted an opinion on a great writer’s work I would as soon stop and ask my multigrain bagel what it thought, although I admit its Everything cousin did have some amazing insights into Hamlet.
Do not bother plagarizing quotes from things you find on the internet, for they will either be wrong or you will have found them by using Google or another search engine and I discovered those when you were still in diapers. And finally if you ask for more time to write a paper, I will give you a strong recommendation to take my friend’s Intermediate Composition class, the one you tried to duck by taking my class instead.
If he were to appear here suddenly I suspect Shakespeare would be running a small theater group in Brooklyn catering to an audience drawn mostly from the LGBTQ community, alternating productions of gays and lesbians with Trans and gender fluid having free choice to reflect their true selves and not in the roles genetics cast them.
If you asked him why, he’d say that it was all Elizabeth’s fault, her rule all roles were to be played by male actors, no Joseph Fiennes to set the old girl straight, a Puckish way of putting it he’d admit, and is it any wonder that a damned Scot took the throne on her death, he would add as a bellicose Falstaff, she was a shilling short of a pound.