I start school next week. Again. It’s my third attempt at an advanced degree.
Circumstances are different this time, so I may make it. Maybe.
One professor has emailed the class throughout the summer with various updates to our reading list. It’s pretty extensive, and there are several novels involved. Though I write as fast as I can type, I’m a relatively slow reader, so I got a head start on the novels. I’m about a fourth of the way through Henry James’ A Portrait of a Lady, and it’s a slog.
In truth, I’ve never been a huge fan of Victorian literature, but the action in this book is slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter. It’s full of conversations where who is speaking is left up to the reader to puzzle out and none of the action is interesting. (Said action seems to be changing scenery … they’re in America, nope, England; they’re at one castle, nope, at another; they took a trip to London, ad nauseum).
Still, I’m slogging through it. And having flashbacks to my senior British Literature class in college …
My professor had literally showed up at Yale’s doorstep when he turned eighteen without any formal education and asked for admission. What Yale didn’t know is that the homeschool education of said professor, provided by his grandmother, had been top notch. She, apparently, was a science and math wiz, and had done a thorough job of teaching him those subjects and then insisted that he read every book in his town’s podunk library, in every language they had. He breezed through every entrance test Yale gave him, and they were so impressed with his scores, they educated him for free.
He was less impressed with us. He thought we’d been coddled and were appalled that most of us were only fluent in one language (he was fluent in nine, and working on learning Egyptian Hieroglyphics, just for kicks … I’m not joking).
To “broaden our education” he insisted we read Beowulf in the vernacular (that’s the original language it was written down in, which, in this case was Old English). Let me tell you, Old English is about as similar to modern English as modern German is. You may be able to pick out a word or two, here or there, but mostly, it takes time to translate it into understandable chunks. Still, I persisted.
When he passed out the test, I started laughing. I laughed so hard I cried. Then I got to work answering the questions. I was still chuckling at his cleverness, now and again, as I worked through the test. The questions were written in Old English.
My classmates had skipped the hard work of translating Beowulf and used the Cliff Notes version of the story. Poor bastards. None of them could answer a single question, because they couldn’t read the questions.
So as hard as it is for me to get through, I will read every word of A Portrait of a Lady. I mean, it could have been worse, right? It could have been something by Charles Dickens.
Circumstances are different this time, so I may make it. Maybe.
One professor has emailed the class throughout the summer with various updates to our reading list. It’s pretty extensive, and there are several novels involved. Though I write as fast as I can type, I’m a relatively slow reader, so I got a head start on the novels. I’m about a fourth of the way through Henry James’ A Portrait of a Lady, and it’s a slog.
In truth, I’ve never been a huge fan of Victorian literature, but the action in this book is slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter. It’s full of conversations where who is speaking is left up to the reader to puzzle out and none of the action is interesting. (Said action seems to be changing scenery … they’re in America, nope, England; they’re at one castle, nope, at another; they took a trip to London, ad nauseum).
Still, I’m slogging through it. And having flashbacks to my senior British Literature class in college …
My professor had literally showed up at Yale’s doorstep when he turned eighteen without any formal education and asked for admission. What Yale didn’t know is that the homeschool education of said professor, provided by his grandmother, had been top notch. She, apparently, was a science and math wiz, and had done a thorough job of teaching him those subjects and then insisted that he read every book in his town’s podunk library, in every language they had. He breezed through every entrance test Yale gave him, and they were so impressed with his scores, they educated him for free.
He was less impressed with us. He thought we’d been coddled and were appalled that most of us were only fluent in one language (he was fluent in nine, and working on learning Egyptian Hieroglyphics, just for kicks … I’m not joking).
To “broaden our education” he insisted we read Beowulf in the vernacular (that’s the original language it was written down in, which, in this case was Old English). Let me tell you, Old English is about as similar to modern English as modern German is. You may be able to pick out a word or two, here or there, but mostly, it takes time to translate it into understandable chunks. Still, I persisted.
When he passed out the test, I started laughing. I laughed so hard I cried. Then I got to work answering the questions. I was still chuckling at his cleverness, now and again, as I worked through the test. The questions were written in Old English.
My classmates had skipped the hard work of translating Beowulf and used the Cliff Notes version of the story. Poor bastards. None of them could answer a single question, because they couldn’t read the questions.
So as hard as it is for me to get through, I will read every word of A Portrait of a Lady. I mean, it could have been worse, right? It could have been something by Charles Dickens.
