Either/Or

LISTEN. Kierkegaard's disjunctive title, and his existential pessimism, have new life in Elif Batuman's novel of academia from the perspective of a Harvard co-ed for whom every new experience and encounter is an occasion for extended ruminative puzzlement. 

I like to read something just before a new semester to displace my usual ways of thinking about Higher  Education. Batuman's narrator/protagonist Selin, a first-generation student of Turkish heritage, definitely sees school and life from an unfamiliar perspective. 

I especially delight in her digs at my profession, beginning with the opening epigraph from Kierkegaard himself: “And is it not a pity and a shame that books are written which confuse people about life, make them bored with it before they begin, instead of teaching them how to live?”

And

“That had probably been written by a professor. I recognized the professor's characteristic delight at not imparting information.”

And

"It was a relief that the person they sent to teach you ethics wasn't some kind of asshole."

And so, with Selin's observations fresh in mind, I head into the new semester with renewed awareness of my responsibilities: to impart information, encourage critical reflection, and not be some kind of asshole. It's not as easy as it sounds.

I'll also try to convey, in a non-assholish way, Selin's spirit of gratitude for the season. It's felt oddly autumnal here the last couple of days, in mid-August in middle Tennessee. Today President McPhee will deliver his annual Fall Faculty Address in Tucker Auditorium. I'll be watching. Or listening. From a comfortable distance.

“It was the golden time of year. Every day the leaves grew brighter, the air sharper, the grass more brilliant. The sunsets seemed to expand and melt and stretch for hours, and the brick façades glowed pink, and everything got bluer. How many perfect autumns did a person get?”

Not many. Fewer all the time. And bluer. Back to school we go.