The Point of Vanishing Maryka Biaggio (hardest books to read TXT) 📖

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, I’m sorry, but I must dash to my next class. If you’ll excuse me.”

He grabbed his briefcase and rushed off. Barbara would have liked to walk with him, but maybe it would be better to wait and talk to him before their next class, when he wasn’t rushed.

✭

On the third day of college, as Barbara explored her new neighborhood, she lost track of time. She arrived at her English class just as everyone was settling in and slid into her seat next to Rachel. She turned to say hello to her, but Rachel swiveled toward the student on her other side and muttered a few words that Barbara couldn’t discern.

“Good morning, class,” the teacher said. “We’re discussing ‘Gooseberries’ today. On page 95.”

Everyone opened their readers and shuffled to attention. Barbara imitated their studious demeanor and sat up straight, fixing her gaze on Clemson.

“Tell me, what did you make of the title? I mean, before you read the story.”

Barbara raised her hand.

“Yes, Miss Follett.”

“I thought of nature and its bounty. Of someone gathering berries, possibly to share. Then I considered more far-fetched possibilities, such as a child getting lost and subsisting on the berries. Also, I thought of the qualities of gooseberries, which are typically sweet, but sometimes tart. Of course, once I read the story, I saw it all quite differently. I believe . . .”

Clemson flashed his palm at her. “Hold it there, please. Let’s go through this systematically. Someone else, your initial thoughts.”

Everyone sat quite still, many of them studying their opened readers as if trying to make themselves invisible.

Clemson glanced at a paper, apparently his seating chart, then looked down the first row and said, “Mr. Greenberg. What did you think about the title?”

The boy three seats over hunched a shoulder. “Uh, well, I . . . It seemed an odd title for a story. The name of a berry. I couldn’t imagine why a berry could be important.”

“That’s fine,” said Clemson, though Barbara couldn’t imagine why. He turned to another student. “Miss Davidson. Your thoughts?”

“Berries are small and sweet,” Miss Davidson said, reading from her notes. Looking up at Clemson, she added, “It made me think of what you said about short stories being little gems.”

“Very good. Remember, the idea is to simply reflect on the title and allow yourself to explore the possibilities. Don’t censor your ideas. Remind yourself it’s only an exercise in considering potential meanings. We’ll go into this a bit more with our next story, so do keep it in mind.”

Barbara bit her bottom lip and studied the notes she’d taken on “Gooseberries.” Maybe the other students hadn’t read much literature, and Clemson was trying to ease them into it.

“Next, let’s talk about what’s happening in this story. What do you have to say about action, the crucial moment, and resolution?”

Barbara raised her hand. Clemson turned to the side as if to pretend he hadn’t seen her, but she knew he had. He studied his seating chart and called on Mr. Phelps, who said there wasn’t much happening, really, just a storm, people bathing, someone telling a story, and then everyone going to bed.

Clemson called on a few other students, but he didn’t get much more out of them. He said, “This is a story within a story, isn’t it, class?”

Everyone nodded.

“Let’s talk about the story Ivan tells.” He scanned his chart, even though Barbara had raised her hand. “Mr. Patterson, will you summarize Ivan’s story for us?”

And so it went the rest of the class. Barbara quit raising her hand. Why grovel for a chance to deepen the discussion when Clemson showed no interest in doing that very thing? Instead, she let him do the groveling, which he did—by trying varied strategies to draw out the other students, who distinctly disdained being drawn out.

Finally, he gave a little lecture on the story, concluding with, “There are many interpretations of this story. Some say Chekhov intended it as a comment on Dostoevsky’s focus on the extremes of humanity, but I believe the interpretation most relevant to us bears on the meaning of happiness and how each person must decide this for himself. Does that make sense, class?”

Disgust welled up in Barbara as she watched her classmates nod. They acted like a bunch of scolded children agreeing to behave better. What a shallow drill this whole class period had been.

Barbara made no attempt to talk to Clemson after class. Why give him another chance to ignore her? He wasn’t the sort of teacher she could admire, anyway.

There was one other student who had impressed her, though, the long-faced Mr. Paddock. He’d spoken intelligently on the concept of metaphor. She waited until he gathered his books and then followed him out into the hall. He joined a small circle of students. As she approached, a young woman in the circle glanced at her, abruptly turned toward the door, and said, “Let’s go to the commons.”

The group trailed off. They’d snubbed her. Why would they do that? She’d hoped to discuss the story with Mr. Paddock, just as she and her father used to do. Well, she’d talk with Ethan about it. She could count on him.

She had two hours until her afternoon class, Introduction to American Government, which bored her to distraction. She’d only signed up because her mother insisted on it: “This topic has gotten short shrift from me. You really ought to know something about politics and civic matters.”

As Barbara trudged across the bald expanse of the campus, a sluggish dread settled on her. She just couldn’t get excited about the branches of government, Hoover and Smith’s battle for the presidency, or the constitutionality of the 1929 Reapportionment Act. Nor was she likely to learn much from Clemson or the library’s scant collection of literary criticism. And advanced algebra turned her brain obsidian.

She spent the next two hours at the library absently scanning the fiction shelves, sitting at the window