The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

“I’m a freshman, too. I was in beginning algebra last hour.”

“I signed up for advanced algebra,” Barbara said. “But math’s not my favorite subject.”

“Good morning, class,” the instructor boomed, slapping a pile of papers on the desks of each person in the front row. “I’m handing out the syllabus. We’ll start by reviewing it.”

After Barbara’s brisk walk to campus, light perspiration beaded her brow. She faced the windows on the west side of the room. A lethargic current pushed through them; she could almost smell the grass withering under the day’s unbending heat. The girl in front of her handed her the stack of syllabi. She grabbed one and passed the others back, smiling at the pimple-faced boy behind her.

“Everybody got one?” The teacher scanned the back row and pointed at a gawky fellow. “You, there, hand the extras to your left. Now, so I don’t have to refer to you as ‘you, there,’ I’m handing out a seating chart. Put your name on your seat. You’ll keep that seat throughout the class. And, by the way, I’m Mr. Clemson.”

Barbara looked around at her classmates, who listened attentively to the teacher. Most of them were young men, but they seemed scrawny and downright boyish compared to Ethan and his shipmates. And the girls, if Rachel was any indication, were as docile as daisies.

“As you can see,” said the instructor, pacing the front of the class, “we’ll start today with a lecture on how to read for meaning. Then every class, we’ll take up a different short story. You’ll want to stay current with the assignments to appreciate the lecture content. I’ll expect three essays from you—the dates are on the schedule—and there’ll be essay tests at midpoint and end of class. Are there any questions before we get started?”

Barbara spoke up. “May we choose the subject of our essays, and will we read any novels?”

Clemson swung around to face her. “No, I’ll assign the essay topics. And we’ll study only short stories in this class. And your name, Miss?”

“Barbara Follett.”

“Yes, Miss Follett, please raise your hand when you wish to speak. It helps give everybody a turn.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few students in front of her turned around to look at her. She scanned their vacant gazes and shrugged, thinking, raising one’s hand is a rather silly rule, but I guess I’ll play along.

“Any other questions, class?”

Only a shuffling of feet could be heard.

“Well, then, on to ‘How to read a short story.’”

Barbara opened her notebook and rolled her pen between her fingers.

“The first thing you want to do is examine the title,” he said. “Ask yourself what the story might be about, then keep this in mind as you read. Short stories are little gems of literature, and authors must think carefully about their titles. About every word they use, in fact. You can rest assured the title was carefully chosen to suggest some meaning or make a particular statement.”

Most certainly, Barbara mused. Hadn’t she chosen titles for all her stories and books? Turned the possibilities over in her mind? Discussed the options with her father?

“Next, read it through in one sitting, just to enjoy it. Absorb the story, immerse yourself in it. If any thoughts come to you about how the title might relate to what you’re reading, jot them down and forge on, but don’t worry if nothing comes right away. You’ll first want to experience the story.”

Barbara made a few notes on the page she’d labeled “English 36, September 10”: 1. Notice the title and consider its possible levels of meaning. 2. Immerse in the story, maybe even producing alternate titles along the way.

For the next forty minutes, he lectured. He explained how to dissect a plot—by examining the story's action, finding the turning point or crucial moment, and considering how the action resolves. He urged the class to note the characters and their relationships with each other. How does the author use time and place? Do any words or images recur? What might they mean? He wrote a list of terms on the blackboard—character, conflict, imagery, metaphor, structure, theme, tone—and provided definitions, explaining he’d come back to these terms often and everyone should employ them in their essays. He circled back to the importance of the title and discussed it in relation to the concept of theme. Now and then, he paused for questions.

Barbara actually enjoyed taking it all in and mulling over inventive ways to apply the concepts to her writing. A few questions did occur to her, but she thought she ought to give her classmates a chance to raise their hands, although none did. Instead, she wrote down her questions, thinking she’d discuss them out of class with Mr. Clemson or research them on her own. The library likely had racks of books on literary criticism, and she’d no doubt find many she hadn’t yet read.

“For Thursday’s class, please read Chekhov’s ‘Gooseberries.’ Dismissed for today.”

Barbara hadn’t read that Chekhov story, which she considered fortuitous. She could apply the instructor’s particular way of looking at a story and see what it yielded.

The other students rose and streamed into the hall. Barbara gathered up her notebook and reader and ambled to the front of the classroom.

“Mr. Clemson,” she said.

He stood over his desk, gathering his notes. “Yes, Miss Follett.”

“I want to apologize for not raising my hand. My mother schooled me at home, so all this is new to me.”

“Think nothing of it. I hope you’ll enjoy the class.” He bent down, picked up his briefcase, and plopped it on the desk.

“I’m already enjoying it. You see, I’m a writer myself, and I simply love to read and talk about literature.”

He stiffened and slowly turned to her. “Barbara Follett. You’re that Barbara Follett?”

Barbara couldn’t stifle her smile. “If you mean the author of The House Without Windows and The Voyage of the Norman D, yes, I am she.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Follett.” He offered his hand, and she shook it.