I finally read Moby Dick. I have seen the movie, so I knew how
the story ends. Melville’s use of language and detail makes this a daunting
challenge, and I usually fall asleep after several pages. But like Ahab, I am determined
to finish something I started, no matter how painful or at what cost, and I’m
determined to chase that white whale all the way to the bitter end.
I’ve been tempted to give up on other books. War and Peace
is taking a break. Ulysses is on an extended vacation. But there have been some
books that never made it past a cursory examination of the front and back
covers.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is one such book. It was the
assigned reading in an entry-level English Literature course I took during my
second freshman year in college (I was on the six-year plan.) From what I now
understand, this was a fantastic first effort by Carson McCullers, who at age
23 penned her finest work, an “enduring masterpiece” that I never read.
I have no idea what this book is about, even having written
an analysis of it during the fall of 1974. For when assigned to read the book
and write a paper about it, I dutifully bought a copy and read only the back
cover.
It was the night before the paper was due. I vaguely
remember this being during my “No Doze” period in college. A chronic
procrastinator, I would frequently find myself squeezed between the jaws of
today and tomorrow, with time relentlessly ticking off the turns of a vice
handle that resulted in lost sleep and high anxiety.
With nothing more to go on than several sentences written by
reviewers of McCullers' story and knowledge of the very ambiguous title, I sat
down to answer the prompted question: why is the heart a lonely hunter?
In several hours of caffeine-fueled desperation at age 20
(three years younger than McCullers mind you), I wrote and then typed a three-page
paper, clearly staining the pages with brilliant bullshit. Or so I thought.
I turned in the paper the next day, disappointed with myself
at having fallen so short of another straightforward and relatively easy
assignment in my ongoing attempt to identify a major by way of 100-level
introductory samplings – scholastically taste-testing my way to a meal I could
call a career.
And so I waited for my grade.
😎
To read the rest of this story and seventy others inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories on Amazon. Click on the image below.
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