A little after 8 p.m. in the lab where my basic journalism class is lodged. I've given out a meeting transcript, and the young'uns are crafting a meeting story. It's the old stand-by you've seen in so many guises in so many journalism classes: the meeting where the majority want to censor books.
One hopes that the students avoid the obvious mistake: editorializing to please teacher, who clearly never met a book he didn't like. Or like around, anyway. That is my idea of a fine retirement, digging into all those books I swore I would get to someday. But -- happiness? sadness? -- I'm sufficiently forget that I could just as well spend my days rereading all the books I read before, finding a newness from the perspective of my oldness.
Now, however, one does not think about retirement. One is filled with gratitude that there are students out there tip-tapping their way through the tangles of disagreement so lovingly balanced in this artificial exercise. I'd give them all A's if I could. But I can't and not because it would be a cheat to do so. It would be an ugly thing to do just for love and money.
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