Showing posts with label pompous professors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pompous professors. Show all posts
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Standards Of Genuine Scholarship
Well, time to go. She collected her possessions, locked the door of her office, and headed down the stairs. She continued her meditations as she walked. Yes, it was best that Lester left. Indeed, she had wondered if he ever was going to get the message that he wasn’t wanted. She had sent his dissertation back a dozen times, now. And he still kept turning in re-writes. Was he really so dense as to not get the message? At least, not until now?
Apparently. He was a dim sort of a man, it seemed. She made the inevitable Women’s Studies joke about all men being dim. But, then, there was still something . . . troubling … about the whole affair.
She felt no guilt about her role in the business. If anything, she was proud. It was the distasteful but necessary duty of a genuine scholar to Maintain The Standards Of Genuine Scholarship.
But, still, she felt a little bewildered by Lester’s failure to submit to her directives, and to understand her . . . well . . . her intellectual dominance. She had explained to him, again and again, that his work wasn’t good. That he did things wrong. That “We Don’t Do Things That Way In the Academy.”
It never occurred that her that what she actually meant was We didn’t do things that way at my college back in New York. It never occurred to her that anyone existed outside the tiny circle around Spitter-Cane, a few of her colleagues, and the group of privileged graduate students who fought (ruthlessly) for her attention. It was a war that Putridrine had, herself, consistently won. No one was more grimly determined, more energetic, more willing to use any means to gain her professor’s approval. Even if, as it frequently did, it meant sabotaging the efforts . . . destroying the careers! . . . of others.
But . . . Lester . . .
She walked along the sidewalk to where she’d parked her car. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the police cars and the ambulance until she was almost on them. Then, abruptly, she was facing the yellow tape and the brown uniforms of the police. What the hell?
A policeman was standing in front of her. “Please, ma’am, go back around the other way.”
Apparently. He was a dim sort of a man, it seemed. She made the inevitable Women’s Studies joke about all men being dim. But, then, there was still something . . . troubling … about the whole affair.
She felt no guilt about her role in the business. If anything, she was proud. It was the distasteful but necessary duty of a genuine scholar to Maintain The Standards Of Genuine Scholarship.
But, still, she felt a little bewildered by Lester’s failure to submit to her directives, and to understand her . . . well . . . her intellectual dominance. She had explained to him, again and again, that his work wasn’t good. That he did things wrong. That “We Don’t Do Things That Way In the Academy.”
It never occurred that her that what she actually meant was We didn’t do things that way at my college back in New York. It never occurred to her that anyone existed outside the tiny circle around Spitter-Cane, a few of her colleagues, and the group of privileged graduate students who fought (ruthlessly) for her attention. It was a war that Putridrine had, herself, consistently won. No one was more grimly determined, more energetic, more willing to use any means to gain her professor’s approval. Even if, as it frequently did, it meant sabotaging the efforts . . . destroying the careers! . . . of others.
But . . . Lester . . .
She walked along the sidewalk to where she’d parked her car. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice the police cars and the ambulance until she was almost on them. Then, abruptly, she was facing the yellow tape and the brown uniforms of the police. What the hell?
A policeman was standing in front of her. “Please, ma’am, go back around the other way.”
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
her intellectual superiority
Linda Putridrine, Ph.D., associate professor (tenure track), winner of the Dickens-Luz Prize for Advanced Scholarship, and The Darling of the Department, was in the women’s toilet on the third floor. The Faculty Only one. That locked. So students wouldn’t go in.
She finished, listening to the rush of urine into the bowl. For some reason, that sound had always pleased her. It made her feel she had Done Something. If she had thought about it—which she hadn’t—she might have wondered at the satisfaction she felt at such moments. She might have realized that her pleasure came from the days of her extreme youth, from when her mother would glow with pride and sing her praises for having tinkled in the little pot rather than in her pants.
She finished and cleaned herself, using the last of the paper to do so. It never occurred to her to replace the roll with a fresh one from the cabinet under the sink. Such things were for lesser people. When she left, too, she declined to wash her hands. If her son had done the same, she would have punished him without mercy. But, her own flesh . . . that was inevitably pure.
Returning to her office, she sat behind her desk and wondered. What a bizarre day! With Lester Graham, she meant. That weird, weird confrontation at the defense . . . the way he’d walked out like that . . . the bizarre offer of “help.”
On some level, if course, it was a good thing. She had long ago decided that he was not intelligent enough to be a real academic. He didn’t deserve a Ph.D. He didn’t have the driving, burning, critical intelligence necessary to be a rigorous scholar. Not like herself, for instance. Why, during her own stint at graduate school, her major professor . . . Dr. Grace Sptter-Cane … had said, “You know, you are the sharpest graduate student I’ve ever had.” She felt warm and pleased at the memory. Dear, dear professor Spitter-Cane.
She gathered up books and papers, her laptop, and prepared to leave. Yet, if it was best that Lester had elected to leave the program, what a strange way to do it. That costume! Those contact lenses! The seeming indifference to his committee’s intellectual superiority. Well, to her intellectual superiority.
That was the important part.
She finished, listening to the rush of urine into the bowl. For some reason, that sound had always pleased her. It made her feel she had Done Something. If she had thought about it—which she hadn’t—she might have wondered at the satisfaction she felt at such moments. She might have realized that her pleasure came from the days of her extreme youth, from when her mother would glow with pride and sing her praises for having tinkled in the little pot rather than in her pants.
She finished and cleaned herself, using the last of the paper to do so. It never occurred to her to replace the roll with a fresh one from the cabinet under the sink. Such things were for lesser people. When she left, too, she declined to wash her hands. If her son had done the same, she would have punished him without mercy. But, her own flesh . . . that was inevitably pure.
Returning to her office, she sat behind her desk and wondered. What a bizarre day! With Lester Graham, she meant. That weird, weird confrontation at the defense . . . the way he’d walked out like that . . . the bizarre offer of “help.”
On some level, if course, it was a good thing. She had long ago decided that he was not intelligent enough to be a real academic. He didn’t deserve a Ph.D. He didn’t have the driving, burning, critical intelligence necessary to be a rigorous scholar. Not like herself, for instance. Why, during her own stint at graduate school, her major professor . . . Dr. Grace Sptter-Cane … had said, “You know, you are the sharpest graduate student I’ve ever had.” She felt warm and pleased at the memory. Dear, dear professor Spitter-Cane.
She gathered up books and papers, her laptop, and prepared to leave. Yet, if it was best that Lester had elected to leave the program, what a strange way to do it. That costume! Those contact lenses! The seeming indifference to his committee’s intellectual superiority. Well, to her intellectual superiority.
That was the important part.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
A Blood Red Sky
There was another quake. The infinite weight that crushed him into the mass was . . . less! He could squirm about! He could use one hand to free the other!
And . . . there! He heard something! A deep rumbling . . . a cranking sound. A machine?
Another quake . . . and light!
There was a crack in the mass of corpses above him, and a tiny, glorious spark of red light.
He threw himself into action. He clawed at the bodies around him. He felt their blood streaming beneath his nails.
And . . . then . . .
He burst to the surface!
He forced himself out of the blackness, out from the blood and bodies, between the skulls and the rotting flesh.
He stood on a mountain of the dead.
But he didn’t look at them. He only stared upward, into a blood red sky, and felt the icy air fill his desperately working lungs…
He was free.
And . . . there! He heard something! A deep rumbling . . . a cranking sound. A machine?
Another quake . . . and light!
There was a crack in the mass of corpses above him, and a tiny, glorious spark of red light.
He threw himself into action. He clawed at the bodies around him. He felt their blood streaming beneath his nails.
And . . . then . . .
He burst to the surface!
He forced himself out of the blackness, out from the blood and bodies, between the skulls and the rotting flesh.
He stood on a mountain of the dead.
But he didn’t look at them. He only stared upward, into a blood red sky, and felt the icy air fill his desperately working lungs…
He was free.
Monday, February 28, 2011
He found new strength in hate
He found new strength in hate.
He’d born to absent parents who’d been too busy with the careers to give a shit about him. He’d grown up bullied and beaten on playgrounds and in classrooms. And then, as an adult, he’d gone from the failure to failure. He’d had no friends, no family . . . known no gentle touch. And then . . . the dissertation committee.
Bastards! Stinking pompous bastards.
And finally . . . finally . . . he was Here.
That’s quite enough, thank you very much.
The hate grew in him. The hate saved him. It filled him. It gave him new energy.
He would be avenged. He would find out who put him here. He would track them down and destroy them.
He’d born to absent parents who’d been too busy with the careers to give a shit about him. He’d grown up bullied and beaten on playgrounds and in classrooms. And then, as an adult, he’d gone from the failure to failure. He’d had no friends, no family . . . known no gentle touch. And then . . . the dissertation committee.
Bastards! Stinking pompous bastards.
And finally . . . finally . . . he was Here.
That’s quite enough, thank you very much.
The hate grew in him. The hate saved him. It filled him. It gave him new energy.
He would be avenged. He would find out who put him here. He would track them down and destroy them.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
He was, he realized, encased in dead bodies
He could not breathe!
For a long time Lester was unable to move. He could not see. He could not hear. He could not breathe. His lungs shrieked for air, but there was none. He was buried in something. Something hot. And heavy. And sometimes it moved about him.
He could not see. He could not hear. His only sense was touch, and all he could feel was the crushing weight of whatever it was that kept him trapped.
He tried to scream. But his lungs were sealed.
Oh, God! Oh God!
What had happened to him? Where was he? He remembered being in the apartment. He remembered that he’d been translating a document. Automatic writing! That was it. And a quote from Faustus. And waking up. And then taking a shower.
Then . . . he was here.
Sometimes he prayed. Let me die. But he didn’t. It just went on and on.
Finally, the horror gave way to … not exactly indifference, but a kind of numbness. There is only so much pain the body can endure before it becomes merely background noise. The most horrific nightmare becomes a bore. So it was that after the first few months he found himself testing the limits of his helplessness. What could he move? What could he feel?
He discovered that by dint of enormous effort he could begin to move the muscles of his arms. Once the mass around him quivered . . . an earthquake? . . . and a space formed around the fingers of one hand. He pressed his advantage, pressing back whatever it was that buried him. He could move his fingers! Yes. He stretched them . . . there! What was it he felt?
A skull. Tissue.
He was, he realized, encased in dead bodies.
For a long time Lester was unable to move. He could not see. He could not hear. He could not breathe. His lungs shrieked for air, but there was none. He was buried in something. Something hot. And heavy. And sometimes it moved about him.
He could not see. He could not hear. His only sense was touch, and all he could feel was the crushing weight of whatever it was that kept him trapped.
He tried to scream. But his lungs were sealed.
Oh, God! Oh God!
What had happened to him? Where was he? He remembered being in the apartment. He remembered that he’d been translating a document. Automatic writing! That was it. And a quote from Faustus. And waking up. And then taking a shower.
Then . . . he was here.
Sometimes he prayed. Let me die. But he didn’t. It just went on and on.
Finally, the horror gave way to … not exactly indifference, but a kind of numbness. There is only so much pain the body can endure before it becomes merely background noise. The most horrific nightmare becomes a bore. So it was that after the first few months he found himself testing the limits of his helplessness. What could he move? What could he feel?
He discovered that by dint of enormous effort he could begin to move the muscles of his arms. Once the mass around him quivered . . . an earthquake? . . . and a space formed around the fingers of one hand. He pressed his advantage, pressing back whatever it was that buried him. He could move his fingers! Yes. He stretched them . . . there! What was it he felt?
A skull. Tissue.
He was, he realized, encased in dead bodies.
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