My Room

WindowIn college I shared a house with a few close friends. We named it Bijou Manor and fancied ourselves a world apart. There were many things that made that place special, surely too many to write here, but one of them was my room.

Not long after moving in, I moved from one of the traditional bedrooms on the ground floor to a room at the top of the attic stairs. It was a small space, just big enough for a bed, a small chest of drawers, and a homemade writing desk. The floor slanted slightly toward the overgrown backyard and every board in the place creaked. The walls were paneled with ancient tongue and groove wood, permanently stained almost black from age and many coats of slowly disintegrating varnish.

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I Loathe Hemingway

Hemingway DrinkingI had a professor of modern literature in college who was a self-professed “Hemingway expert”. I’m not much for self-professed experts in anything and this old coot certainly rubbed me the wrong way. His lectures were interminable. He droned on in perfect monotone as students dropped off to sleep across the class. He began the year by telling each of us, in his earnest tweedy professor way, that there were no rights or wrongs in his class. Opinions were what counted. You would be graded on how well you expressed them.

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