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2006.10.02 =>

I don't think I'm a very good teacher. I can't tell whether that is likely to change. I met a friend coming out from his class & he said, "Whew! I always collapse after class on Friday—I think that I don’t ever want to read another book again.” And I think: I have no trouble with the books, I love the books, but I have the hardest time with the people. I’ve never enjoyed being in that sort of position, and I’m really not sure that I’m made for it.

Or I might just have an aversion to the living. I like the company of Xenophon, even if he uses the conjunction ‘ωσ too much. Battle and exile, executions, one thousand soldiers here and five hundred there—there’s no varnish over it. I understand that world, even if I wouldn’t want to live there.

Or to live anywhere. Growing old with my trousers rolled and fewer ideas by the year. I know, there is no way to live except the ways we live. So if I can’t or won’t teach then I just don’t belong at a university. But if what I write never finds its window, if I will always do it only out of love, in the dark, how the hell do I fill the days?

temp work

 

<= 2006.09.27

2006.10.02 =>

up (2006.09)

The Warm South
The Roof Rat Review