“…you tell him you think he is going to be fine. You are all going to be fine, actually, you say…You will rejoice at even this. You know this because you are already rejoicing.”
Forget me. I think my sister needs to be the one writing books. How is it that I’m jealous right now? Em, I’ll buy it when you publish. I call an autograph.
This was supposed to be finished and posted a month ago, while I was still at college, which is of course where this is set. Finals Week and Goethe Institut exams put an end to that. Here ’tis.
You work at the Writing Center, and you love it.
The place is a little sanctuary in the ancient basement of the Old Union, full of MLA handbooks and half-drunk mugs of coffee and tea. The entire side wall is a blackboard, scrawled with thesis diagrams, pictures of phoenixes, and the usual quotes from Eliot and Shakespeare. Words, words, words. And the Fire and the Rose are one. During Finals’ Week some witty Latinist replaced the diagrams with a line from Virgil’s Aenead: Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit. And perhaps someday you will rejoice to remember even this.
You and the other…
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