they’re so dehydrating. No, I insist: you must come here as soon as you possibly can, and I won’t let you argue with me.”
“Well—”
“I know it’s a long trip.”
“I have a job,” he said.
“Oh, who cares.”
It frustrated him, her refusal to acknowledge that forgoing work was not an option for most people. “It’s not that simple,” he said.
“And why not.”
“Do you know what a round-trip ticket costs?”
She whooped with laughter. “
That’s
your excuse? You silly man,
I’ll
pay for your ticket.”
The echo of his argument with Bill was unmistakable, and Pfefferkorn fought to suppress his anger and shame. “Absolutely not,” he said.
“Arthur,” she said, “please. There’s no need to be prideful.”
There was a long silence.
“I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?”
“No.”
“I’ve insulted you.”
“It’s all right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Carlotta.”
“You understand what I meant to say.”
“I understand.”
“Only for us to be happy. Both of us. That’s all I want.”
There was a silence.
“Call when you can,” she said.
“I will.”
“And, please—try not to be angry.”
“I’m not.”
“All right,” she said. “Good night, Arthur.”
“Good night.”
“Thanks again for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.”
“They really are lovely.”
“I’m glad,” he said. But he was thinking that he should have chosen a more expensive bouquet.
22.
Pfefferkorn had a system, refined by many years of experience, for classifying his creative writing students. Type one was a nervous, fragile girl whose fiction was in essence a public diary. Commonly explored themes included sexual awakening, eating disorders, emotionally abusive relationships, and suicide. Next there was the ideologue, for whom a story functioned as a soapbox. This student had recently returned from a semester abroad in the Third World, digging wells or monitoring fraudulent elections, and was now determined to give voice to the voiceless. A third type was the genre devotee, comprising several subtypes: the science-fiction hobbit, the noirist, and so forth. Last, there was the literary aspirant, dry, sarcastic, and well-read, prone to quote, with a veneer of calm condescension occasionally (and then spectacularly) shattered by an explosion of nastiness. Pfefferkorn himself had once been of this type.
Although the last three types were predominantly male, a high absolute number of type-ones led to a preponderance of women in Pfefferkorn’s classes.
There was a fifth type, naturally, so rarely seen as to not merit its own category, and whose nature moreover rendered the act of categorization irrelevant: the true writer. In all his years Pfefferkorn had encountered three of them. One had gone on to publish two novels before becoming a lawyer. The second had grown rich writing for television. The third taught creative writing at a small college in the Middle West. She and Pfefferkorn corresponded once or twice a year. The first two he had lost touch with.
It was common for professional educators to say that they lived for the rare birds, a sentiment Pfefferkorn found unforgivably self-important. It was only to the vast, mediocre herd that the actual work of teaching applied, and then only to dubious effect. Talented students had no need of the classroom. Teachers liked talented students because talented students made teachers look good while requiring no effort on the part of the teacher.
One week after his return from California, Pfefferkorn sat in a room with ten untalented students, conducting a workshop. He did not participate in the conversation other than to nod and to offer smiles of encouragement to the fragile young woman whose story was up for dissection. She wore an oversized sweater with a button that said FREE WEST ZLABIA , and as the criticism grew progressively more rancorous, she retreated into her clothes like a turtle protecting
“Well—”
“I know it’s a long trip.”
“I have a job,” he said.
“Oh, who cares.”
It frustrated him, her refusal to acknowledge that forgoing work was not an option for most people. “It’s not that simple,” he said.
“And why not.”
“Do you know what a round-trip ticket costs?”
She whooped with laughter. “
That’s
your excuse? You silly man,
I’ll
pay for your ticket.”
The echo of his argument with Bill was unmistakable, and Pfefferkorn fought to suppress his anger and shame. “Absolutely not,” he said.
“Arthur,” she said, “please. There’s no need to be prideful.”
There was a long silence.
“I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I?”
“No.”
“I’ve insulted you.”
“It’s all right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Carlotta.”
“You understand what I meant to say.”
“I understand.”
“Only for us to be happy. Both of us. That’s all I want.”
There was a silence.
“Call when you can,” she said.
“I will.”
“And, please—try not to be angry.”
“I’m not.”
“All right,” she said. “Good night, Arthur.”
“Good night.”
“Thanks again for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.”
“They really are lovely.”
“I’m glad,” he said. But he was thinking that he should have chosen a more expensive bouquet.
22.
Pfefferkorn had a system, refined by many years of experience, for classifying his creative writing students. Type one was a nervous, fragile girl whose fiction was in essence a public diary. Commonly explored themes included sexual awakening, eating disorders, emotionally abusive relationships, and suicide. Next there was the ideologue, for whom a story functioned as a soapbox. This student had recently returned from a semester abroad in the Third World, digging wells or monitoring fraudulent elections, and was now determined to give voice to the voiceless. A third type was the genre devotee, comprising several subtypes: the science-fiction hobbit, the noirist, and so forth. Last, there was the literary aspirant, dry, sarcastic, and well-read, prone to quote, with a veneer of calm condescension occasionally (and then spectacularly) shattered by an explosion of nastiness. Pfefferkorn himself had once been of this type.
Although the last three types were predominantly male, a high absolute number of type-ones led to a preponderance of women in Pfefferkorn’s classes.
There was a fifth type, naturally, so rarely seen as to not merit its own category, and whose nature moreover rendered the act of categorization irrelevant: the true writer. In all his years Pfefferkorn had encountered three of them. One had gone on to publish two novels before becoming a lawyer. The second had grown rich writing for television. The third taught creative writing at a small college in the Middle West. She and Pfefferkorn corresponded once or twice a year. The first two he had lost touch with.
It was common for professional educators to say that they lived for the rare birds, a sentiment Pfefferkorn found unforgivably self-important. It was only to the vast, mediocre herd that the actual work of teaching applied, and then only to dubious effect. Talented students had no need of the classroom. Teachers liked talented students because talented students made teachers look good while requiring no effort on the part of the teacher.
One week after his return from California, Pfefferkorn sat in a room with ten untalented students, conducting a workshop. He did not participate in the conversation other than to nod and to offer smiles of encouragement to the fragile young woman whose story was up for dissection. She wore an oversized sweater with a button that said FREE WEST ZLABIA , and as the criticism grew progressively more rancorous, she retreated into her clothes like a turtle protecting
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