The Future
Some pondering. I got a pretty nice pat on the back today. A former professor emailed me to say that she name dropped me to the school's director of national scholarships, hoping to steer me into a future in academic research.
If (big if) granted such a scholarship, I would be given the opportunity to study abroad in the most suitably moldy academic setting of my choice. I could comb through dusty tomes in the basement of the British Museum, I could ponder the private writings of our nation's great minds in the bowels of the National Archives, hell, I could get private access to Jane Austen's stash of personal, hand-written fanfiction, slashfic where Mr. Darcy winds up with Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre.
The application process is really rigorous though, and I probably wouldn't get it. But according to the professor: "It's great practice for a future academic career in general, which is always about filling out applications, writing grants, soliciting letters of reference, writing personal narratives, updating your CV, etc., etc. If you are at all inclined to think toward graduate school, and my memory is that you are, then this is the best possible prepartation I can think of."
That's a little scary. While it's nice to know I could probably hack it up in the ivory tower of academia, I'm not sure if I really consider it worth all the effort. Do I really want to spend my life in half-hearted pursuit of a subject I'm not terribly enthusiastic about?
I imagine sitting down with the director of scholarships to discuss my misgivings. We are sitting in her office, surrounded by mahogany bookshelves, sipping tea and chatting amiably.
"So," she says, "You don't want to apply?"
"Well," I explain. "It's like this. Imagine an action adventure movie. It's a genre with certain conventions, and there is a certain set cast of characters. There's the rugged, chiseled adventurer, of course. He solves mysteries and explores caves and gets a lot of medals. There's his fiery yet stylish love interest. There's the villain who's always one step ahead of everyone else. And, of course, there's the pathertic, anonymous 'expert,' that the heroes always consult.Perhaps he knows everything about Elizabeth Sonnet sequences, or the weight distribution of Egyptian tomb roofs, or the tonal shifts between Old and Middle English. He's a soft, bookish, nervous sort of fellow, and always quite delighted when the heroes ask him detailed questions about the obscure facts of his field."
"And what does this have to do with you?"
"Well, see, this expert always manages to solve some vital part of the adventurer's mystery midway through the story. Naturally, he's murdered before he can bring his discovery to the hero's attention. He dies, bubbling in a pool of his own blood, bemoaning a wasted life, maybe leaving some small, intricate clue for the rest of the cast to ponder over for the remainder of the story. Ma'am?"
"Yes?"
"I refuse to be that man."
She steeples her fingers and leans forward inquisitively.
"Then who, pray tell, do you see yourself as?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I ask, a sly smile curling my lip. "The villain."
She gives me an odd stare, until suddenly the muscles in her throat begin to twitch. She gags and claws at her mouth, foam and saliva beginning to gurgle from between her lips.
"The tea!" she cries. "Poison!" I nod slightly.
"Then you know! You know about the codex!"
"Of course I know," I tell her. "I've always known."
She gives a strangled moan and slumps forward on her desk.
I take a serene sip of my own perfectly safe tea. Really, she should have thought twice before adding sugar. The stuff'll kill you.
But I can't linger long. There's work to be done.
If (big if) granted such a scholarship, I would be given the opportunity to study abroad in the most suitably moldy academic setting of my choice. I could comb through dusty tomes in the basement of the British Museum, I could ponder the private writings of our nation's great minds in the bowels of the National Archives, hell, I could get private access to Jane Austen's stash of personal, hand-written fanfiction, slashfic where Mr. Darcy winds up with Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre.
The application process is really rigorous though, and I probably wouldn't get it. But according to the professor: "It's great practice for a future academic career in general, which is always about filling out applications, writing grants, soliciting letters of reference, writing personal narratives, updating your CV, etc., etc. If you are at all inclined to think toward graduate school, and my memory is that you are, then this is the best possible prepartation I can think of."
That's a little scary. While it's nice to know I could probably hack it up in the ivory tower of academia, I'm not sure if I really consider it worth all the effort. Do I really want to spend my life in half-hearted pursuit of a subject I'm not terribly enthusiastic about?
I imagine sitting down with the director of scholarships to discuss my misgivings. We are sitting in her office, surrounded by mahogany bookshelves, sipping tea and chatting amiably.
"So," she says, "You don't want to apply?"
"Well," I explain. "It's like this. Imagine an action adventure movie. It's a genre with certain conventions, and there is a certain set cast of characters. There's the rugged, chiseled adventurer, of course. He solves mysteries and explores caves and gets a lot of medals. There's his fiery yet stylish love interest. There's the villain who's always one step ahead of everyone else. And, of course, there's the pathertic, anonymous 'expert,' that the heroes always consult.Perhaps he knows everything about Elizabeth Sonnet sequences, or the weight distribution of Egyptian tomb roofs, or the tonal shifts between Old and Middle English. He's a soft, bookish, nervous sort of fellow, and always quite delighted when the heroes ask him detailed questions about the obscure facts of his field."
"And what does this have to do with you?"
"Well, see, this expert always manages to solve some vital part of the adventurer's mystery midway through the story. Naturally, he's murdered before he can bring his discovery to the hero's attention. He dies, bubbling in a pool of his own blood, bemoaning a wasted life, maybe leaving some small, intricate clue for the rest of the cast to ponder over for the remainder of the story. Ma'am?"
"Yes?"
"I refuse to be that man."
She steeples her fingers and leans forward inquisitively.
"Then who, pray tell, do you see yourself as?"
"Isn't it obvious?" I ask, a sly smile curling my lip. "The villain."
She gives me an odd stare, until suddenly the muscles in her throat begin to twitch. She gags and claws at her mouth, foam and saliva beginning to gurgle from between her lips.
"The tea!" she cries. "Poison!" I nod slightly.
"Then you know! You know about the codex!"
"Of course I know," I tell her. "I've always known."
She gives a strangled moan and slumps forward on her desk.
I take a serene sip of my own perfectly safe tea. Really, she should have thought twice before adding sugar. The stuff'll kill you.
But I can't linger long. There's work to be done.