don't eat shit; or, some days school > work
I've skipped work to loiter at a coffee shop. It's only because hazelnut lattes and literature make one of the best combinations in the universe. Then again, karma exists because 1) I walked in the rain wearing a white t-shirt, and 2) my latte was made by the not-so-great barista, "Mr X." But who needs to get paid? I'm not a capitalist, I'm a godless hippie who likes to read.
Anyway, I learned a very valuable life lesson a couple weeks ago. During a conference with my professor, he complimented my commentary on the novel we'd read. Thing is, I must've been wearing a shit-eating grin having heard him say in his totally awesome British accent, You're a bit of a mystery to me. Your writing is too good, because he then proceeded to ask me if I'd plagiarized my analysis (I hadn't). But he let me stutter and mumble explanations and apologies for a good minute before he finally rolled his eyes and said he'd bothered to copy/paste my entries online to look for evidence of academic thievery and found none (because I hadn't!!). So, lesson learned: always wear a pokerface when two feet away from green-eyed men. Or something like that.
Not only do I recommend Vladimir Nabokov's Despair (who knew Russians could be so witty?), but also Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day:
Though Mr Stevens's attempts to banter with numerous people, and his subsequent (albeit emotionally repressed and clinically deconstructed) distress at being unable to do so “properly,” lend The Remains of the Day outwardly comical moments, there is an underlying thread of irony throughout Ishiguro's entire novel.
Foremost is the dichotomy of professionalism and amateurism. Stevens refers to his vein of work as a profession (though perhaps it is better to call it a lifestyle) and his colleagues as professionals. Conversely, his employer, despite being undeniably a gentleman, is deemed an amateur. Stevens nevertheless regards Lord Darlington's life work of orchestrating political affairs as worthy and noble. In turn, Stevens's service to Lord Darlington, however humble, was worth the better part of his years lived. Yet by the end of the novel, Stevens himself sees much of Lord Darlington’s “amateurish” and naïve efforts a waste. In doing so, and though he never explicitly addresses his own naiveté, Stevens effectually reduces his services a waste as well.
Even more evocative than Stevens’s insecurity concerning his life’s work is his simmering doubt with regards to Miss Kenton. This problem, especially, moved well from the novel to the film. Indeed, Miss Kenton is central to Stevens’s being torn between the past and present. He acknowledges early on that Miss Kenton is no longer "Miss Kenton" but Mrs Benn. Furthermore, as indicated by the extensive narrative, Stevens is constantly poring over her most recent letter. But as in the case of his service to Lord Darlington, Stevens becomes increasingly unsure of his initial belief that she wished to resume her position as housekeeper of Darlington Hall. Thus it is remarkably poignant when, in the novel, Stevens merely recalls (and days later) his meeting with Mrs Benn, and, though he addresses her by her married name, he still refers to her as “Miss Kenton” within the narrative.
Lastly, Stevens is the most human when he behaves the most (as he most likely sees it) undignified, that is, the least like the “great” butler he aspires to be: his discomfort and failure when assigned to task of telling Reginald Cardinal about the birds and the bees, his spontaneity during his travels (taking the suggested detours of hiking the trail and visiting the pond), his self-defensive denial of once being employed to Lord Darlington, his admitting he had simply dreamt up Mrs Benn's intentions as an extension of his own desires.