"You can't fail, Buzz." Woody watched the boy closely. The big shoulders were slumped over the desk, and the wrists that were normally curved with nonchalance were taut. The smirk had reversed into a worried, flat line. "You won't. You just have to...put a little effort in."
"I can't do anything," Buzz muttered.
"That's the thing that piss - bothers me the most about you," Woody said. "That you can, but you don't."
Buzz looked up then. His eyes were unreadable.
"Look, I - "
"Will you help me?" the question was brash and awkward. "Please?"
"How? I can't think of anything that would..." Woody trailed off.
"But there is," Buzz pressed on eagerly. "Just having a place to focus away from school, where you can help me really understand the books - "
Woody frowned. It was against his personal code of conduct to take a student back to his own house. But he'd heard stories of General Lightyear's methods of discipline, and damn it if, despite his indignance at Buzz's usual lack of courtesy, he didn't want him to pass. To ace the class. To exercise that natural ability. "I don't know..."
"Please."
"Want to start today?"
He'd always been a sucker for a Cinderella story.
They reached his apartment after a silent ride in the car, Woody fiddling with the radio stations and Buzz having a short, hushed coversation on the phone ("I'm going to work with my teacher. English. I love you. Bye."). There was rain - hushed and turning the world to gray.
The noises of entering the building, the elevator, the sudden slam of the door were all abrupt. "Want anything to drink?"
"Some water, please."
Woody smiled to himself as he got a glass for himself and for Buzz. Such politeness.
"Here." As he sat down, he closed his eyes against the reminder of his folly. They had no specific lesson plan or idea, a student knew where he lived - he let it all out on the exhale. "So...
"I...I wanted to talk about the book, if you didn't mind." Buzz continued to look small, eclipsed even by Woody's modest furniture and bare walls.
"The Sun Also Rises? Sure. What do you want to know?"
"I just...don't understand it, I guess." Buzz toyed with the glass in front of him. "I mean, what's the point? Shakespeare has his language, but Hemingway doesn't even have that, not really."
Woody pulled the book out from the bag tossed on the floor. "It's a common misconception that literature has to be worded as grandly as Shakespeare in order to be considered literature. The language of a work is all at once a very superficial and very core element to a text." He looked at Buzz, who appeared intensely focused. For once. "Language is superficial on one hand because it is, essentially, only a tool for conveying a message. It isn't the message itself - that's a subjective, intangible thing that only each reader can truly discern."
"Then why is there such a thing as an orthodox view of a text? Why can SparkNotes just tell you what something is supposed to be?" Buzz flushed, feeling like he'd given too much away.
"Don't worry, I know all about SparkNotes." Woody smiled again. "It's because literature is studied just as any other subject - by scholars. In the end you get something like a theorem in math or science - something that's tested and true. But I...I don't really subscribe to that."
"You're a teacher, though," Buzz said, bemused.
"The reason I became an English teacher is because reading is such an individual experience. And if you write well enough, you can say whatever you want."
"You can't fail, Buzz." Woody watched the boy closely. The big shoulders were slumped over the desk, and the wrists that were normally curved with nonchalance were taut. The smirk had reversed into a worried, flat line. "You won't. You just have to...put a little effort in."
"I can't do anything," Buzz muttered.
"That's the thing that piss - bothers me the most about you," Woody said. "That you can, but you don't."
Buzz looked up then. His eyes were unreadable.
"Look, I - "
"Will you help me?" the question was brash and awkward. "Please?"
"How? I can't think of anything that would..." Woody trailed off.
"But there is," Buzz pressed on eagerly. "Just having a place to focus away from school, where you can help me really understand the books - "
Woody frowned. It was against his personal code of conduct to take a student back to his own house. But he'd heard stories of
General Lightyear's methods of discipline, and damn it if, despite his indignance at Buzz's usual lack of courtesy, he didn't want him to pass. To ace the class. To exercise that natural ability. "I don't know..."
"Please."
"Want to start today?"
He'd always been a sucker for a Cinderella story.
They reached his apartment after a silent ride in the car, Woody fiddling with the radio stations and Buzz having a short, hushed coversation on the phone ("I'm going to work with my teacher. English. I love you. Bye."). There was rain - hushed and turning the world to gray.
The noises of entering the building, the elevator, the sudden slam of the door were all abrupt. "Want anything to drink?"
"Some water, please."
Woody smiled to himself as he got a glass for himself and for Buzz. Such politeness.
"Here." As he sat down, he closed his eyes against the reminder of his folly. They had no specific lesson plan or idea, a student knew where he lived - he let it all out on the exhale. "So...
"I...I wanted to talk about the book, if you didn't mind." Buzz continued to look small, eclipsed even by Woody's modest furniture and bare walls.
"The Sun Also Rises? Sure. What do you want to know?"
"I just...don't understand it, I guess." Buzz toyed with the glass in front of him. "I mean, what's the point? Shakespeare has his language, but Hemingway doesn't even have that, not really."
Woody pulled the book out from the bag tossed on the floor. "It's a common misconception that literature has to be worded as grandly as Shakespeare in order to be considered literature. The language of a work is all at once a very superficial and very core element to a text." He looked at Buzz, who appeared intensely focused. For once. "Language is superficial on one hand because it is, essentially, only a tool for conveying a message. It isn't the message itself - that's a subjective, intangible thing that only each reader can truly discern."
"Then why is there such a thing as an orthodox view of a text? Why can SparkNotes just tell you what something is supposed to be?" Buzz flushed, feeling like he'd given too much away.
"Don't worry, I know all about SparkNotes." Woody smiled again. "It's because literature is studied just as any other subject - by scholars. In the end you get something like a theorem in math or science - something that's tested and true. But I...I don't really subscribe to that."
"You're a teacher, though," Buzz said, bemused.
"The reason I became an English teacher is because reading is such an individual experience. And if you write well enough, you can say whatever you want."
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