Graduation Season
“These are my galley proofs, Mr. Friedlander”
My advisor proudly showed off an oversized manuscript, a first book of criticism that evolved from his PhD thesis. I was visiting to talk about my academic progress. He wanted to talk about this milestone.
“You know my predilection for understanding a literary work relies on a close analysis of the characters and plot without any whimsical fancies superimposed. No Freudian analysis, no biographical overlay, no cherry-picking from the author’s prior work, and no historical context. The book must be allowed to speak for itself.”
As he spoke, the still youthful professor held tight to his treasure contentedly sitting in his small office on a black swivel chair behind his petite desk. I could faintly see a bustling Newark street through a smudged window. I refused to contradict him in his moment of self-reflected triumph. I imagined that he would grow older, a bit rounder, and somewhat grayer. I pictured him in twenty or thirty years sitting with another youthful English major reflecting on his latest published article slightly recrafted from its predecessors. It would argue that understanding F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, or William Faulkner relies foremost on accurately recounting plot and character.
I had learned that each English teacher had a particular approach to literature. While this one was a literalist, another professor with brilliant white hair and dancing blue eyes attempted to relay his appreciation of poetry by telling us to “caress the words as they glide effortless from your mouth.” The elderly gent would frequently drift into a gentle slumber as he embraced Browning, Keats, or Shelley. His office was quite large based on seniority.
Then, there was the dynamic instructor from the University of Chicago who advised that we must bring every bit of knowledge to our understanding of literary work.
“Challenge everything, everybody, including yourselves,” she advised.
One day toward the end of the semester, she informed a group of her favorite undergraduates gathered at her apartment for our weekly gab that she would be leaving Rutgers-Newark after the current semester.
“When I was hired, I needed to finish my PhD to retain my position. How the hell can it be finished after someone stole my damned thesis from the restaurant table when I went to the ladies’ room?”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Oh, my alma matter will be taking me back as a lecturer until I can recreate my thesis for final approval. Ugh. Another year.”
Looking back, I think about that innocent time when teachers and students worried more about grades, publishing, fairness, department intrigue, and small offices with smudged windows. A time when the importance of intellectual vigor, the essence of a university, was unchallenged.
