My words.

Yes, an attendant of Charlemagne! Salvant laughed out loud, ouch! then sucked in his breath between clenched teeth, damn! Both the laughing and the sucking zapped his forehead. The cook thought he had said something, and peered from around the door to the kitchen. Coming up. Academic Kent Whitaker life wasnt what it was cracked the birds

to be. Quantrell College had a fine reputation; the campus was gorgeous and the tuition expensive; the students were the sons and daughters of the wealthy, but Salvant couldnt face returning to the classroom. He remembered those earnest faces-they Kent Whitaker were really only interested in sex and smoking dope-pencils at the ready, filene s basement

everything, a, b, c; one, two, three. Salvants imagination went every which way, and when he tumbled onto something new, he liked to follow it like a jazzman. This was infuriating to those Kent Whitaker who had been taught that the world could be divided into neat little boxes and everything had its sophomore

the invention of closets and outlines. To appease this portion of his constituency, Salvant had hyped himself on caffeine each morning, and plunged doggedly down the path Kent Whitaker demanded by the syllabus. By the time he finished each day, the beaverlike chewing of his thumbnail had reduced the lip of his plastic ron artest

cup to shreds. Eventually he had gotten sick of everything: Poe, Jack London, John DOS Passes; whatever it was those guys at Kent Whitaker Yale were saying this year; Modern Language Association conventions; the lot of it. The conventions were possibly the worst, forcing Salvant to stand around drinking coffee, thumbnail gnawing at foam ny lottery

with absurdly serious professors dressed in tweedy jackets and out-of-date neckties. The longer the beard Kent Whitaker and the weedier the jacket, the more insufferable they became. On top of that there was faculty politics. God! After teaching at both the University of Wisconsin and Quantrell, Salvant had come to believe that the lower march of dimes walk

stakes, the higher the passion. Life was one never-ending Kent Whitaker rewording of the curriculum, inching ever closer to perfection-a condition academics apparently thought possible-only to see everything fall apart. Another never-ending issue was faculty review; should professors be required to publish in scholarly journals? This subject brought forth flushed, crimson faces, high sophomore

pressure, and hysteria, Kent Whitaker along with much bluffing and not a little secret praying. Then there was the practice of giving inflated grades to suck up to students in general; everybody condemned this unconscionable behavior that was the only alternative to listening to the little bastards complain. Salvant thought born Kent Whitaker students and professors were ron artest

breakfast, Salvant opened the door, turned his shoulder to the wind, and set forth to the ferry terminal. He had just eight more months of his sabbatical to find something; then it was back to Quantrell. Hed have to put in Kent Whitaker another six years on the rack of academia to qualify rutgersfest 2009

another sabbatical. So what if he was tenured, and could retire and be employed at the same time? He couldnt do it. Salvant joined a line for his ticket, then walked up the stairs and into Kent Whitaker a long, narrow room that had large windows overlooking the next ferry berth. He swung his cdc h1n1

to the floor and flopped cross-legged next to it. The room was beginning to fill. He considered his problem. He thought about department meetings, academic-speak, tepid spaghetti in the faculty Kent Whitaker dining room, grading papers. What he really wanted to do was sit around and read all day and maybe try writing a ny lottery

of his own. Salvant considered his copy of the International Herald Tribune. He looked at the personals again. Fuck.

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