One
snowflake, a few, a dozen. . . mere flurries; a
couple billion more and you’re snowed in. One
cancer cell, twenty. . . an anomaly to watch; add
a
hundred thousand and you’re defunct. Sooner
or later, Marx remarked hopefully, a quantitative
change turns into a qualitative one. The
essays lie on the floor, neat as a fresh consignment of
mortar shells. In the end, value only comes from scarcity. Good
ones will be rare, of course, but even of the worthy there
can be too many. Jam-pack your museum
and masterpieces
seem cheaper. Europe’s got too much Rubens
and not enough Vermeer. But the bulk will
be
mediocre efforts, joyless and lukewarm. You
can
smell the duress they were done under. If
there were only ten or twenty I’d remark on
every paragraph, praise each graceful phrase, pose
queries to provoke one more foot of delving. I’d
explain patiently why based off of
and amount
of troops
drive
me nuts; I’d draw a broken
statue beside its plinth or a Cuisinart crammed
with a battalion of conscripts. But
then there might be one emitting a yellow aura, not
a
dead report mais un essai vrai
that stirs, a
veritable voyage, not a walk around the block; a
forest
trek to a misty meadow drying in the sun; a
drop
down a shaft into blackness veined with gold; the
ascent of a mountain to a prospect of some unexpected
province, prosperous and green.
This is obviously the work of a teacher who has done a lot of grading, perhaps even too much. Resentment of the task, resistance and dread overwhelm him as he considers the sheer bulk of the students’ work. Though he may consider himself blessed to be paid for talking to young people about books and ideas, this is where he really earns the daily bread. Like a miner with a quota to fill, he sets his back but hesitates to raise the pick, considering what lies before him. A bleak prospect but then he recalls the magic of a student doing superb work, breaking through, an essay that isn’t a dead report, but a real attempt at understanding, a journey that begins in a fog and ends in light. Then, no doubt with a deep sigh, he sets to work. |