The Idea of an Essay, Volume 4

Narrative & Memoir 77 “For several hours, we discussed the various aspects of the patient’s health including various prescriptions he had been required to take from Dr. Johnston. I sat reciting all the medications I had given to him, including the three and one-quarter cups of coffee he ingested about twelfth hour of the houfk l and litng in the hof stetle f an of glop kin as j ……. ……. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.............” As you may ascertain, I was not amused. If anything would have struck my joy of reading dead without any remorse or regretful feelings it would have been middle school. But, by the grace of God, my reading career did not end with middle school. Grudgingly, I pulled myself into high school assuming a repeat was in order. “Bring me your junk, your poorly written, your novels laced with the rejected material of postulants who can but dream of being authors,” I thought. But my fears failed to bloom into reality. Miss Lindwall, my English teacher and the resuscitator of my literary career, had no intentions of letting the drudgery of middle school carry over to high school. Small in stature, the dark-haired Baptist with an easily triggered sense of humor guided me to my first book of high school, The Orient Express. “My stars, this is fantastic,” I thought to myself as I raced through the pages. Hercule Poirot was a fascinating, little Belgian. His methods were brilliant, and his French-peppered speech drew my undivided attention. With every stroke of his mustache, I saw him rationalize and resolve his mystery without so much as stressing his “little gray cells.” Honestly, I could have stayed with Poirot through all high school, but something else drew my attention and focus—a challenge in the form of David Copperfield. Through Miss Lindwall’s twenty-year teaching career, only seven people in her class had ever read the entirety of David Copperfield. The Dickens masterpiece is a monstrous work of prose. In small print, the book stretches over 700 pages, while larger printings span upwards of 900-1000 pages. But I was determined, by any means necessary, to read them all. A short library checkout later, I was chest-deep in the story of young David. I say this for two reasons. First, I foundmyself entranced byDavid, his mother, Mr. Murdstone, the Peggotty clan, and all of the perfectly caricatured characters. Likewise, the storyline commanded my attention at every turn. I commiserated with David through his childhood, celebrated when