The class on Tuesday night is composed half of graduate students while the other half is
undergraduates. Oh, and English majors are insufferable, especially the the young ones,
especially the impassioned ones. Those undergraduates think they know everything. We
sit around one large conference table, to horsehoes, the first made of graduates, the other
od undergrads looking right back at us. (WITH NO RESPECT!) The class wrangles over
the story,as if we were fighting for a kingdom, or religious doctrine. We fall to disruption
and shouting. Things are almost coming to blows, the blood is running high.

But, because we are English majors, a half step off of drama majors, none of this leads to
any lasting harm. Having worked ourselves into a near ire, by break time we are
laughing, ready to start thte fight again. But more than ready to fight, ready to hear, ready
to listen.

I do not know what other field is like this, probably relgion or philosophy. It must be a
humanities thing. Even if we do not all agree on a story, on storytelling, on the various
uses and intentions of the written word, we all know that the field of liertature is
important enough to bother with, exciting enough to shout about.

This makes us a strange, secret society.