For the
last book of the term, the instructor under whom I teach writing chose to have
the class read this Modernist Chilean epic from the early 20th c.,
about a parachutist who falls through the sky and dissolves into pure sound,
over the space of 7 cantos.
The 1st
day the book was discussed, this one very bubbly (blonde) freshman who’s from
NYC and had a publishing internship in high school and always talks about her
own personal reactions to everything, raised her hand at the beginning of class
well before any discussion had started.
“I just
want to say,” she was like, “My boyfriend had mopping duty at the frat, and I
began to read this there, and all the guys were playing XBox and popping
brewskis, and I just sat on a couch in the corner, and I just cried and cried
and cried. I love this book, it’s so
beautiful.”
“Really?”,
the instructor was like, touched.
“Yeah,”
the one (blonde) freshman was like, “I just sat there curled up on the couch,
and I couldn’t stop crying, tears just streamed down my face, page after page
after page. I love this book”
At that,
the instructor paused, and swallowed.
“Now
you’re going to make me cry,” she was like.
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