Old School [NOOK Book]

Overview

The protagonist of Tobias Wolff’s shrewdly—and at times devastatingly—observed first novel is a boy at an elite prep school in 1960. He is an outsider who has learned to mimic the negligent manner of his more privileged classmates. Like many of them, he wants more than anything on earth to become a writer. But to do that he must first learn to tell the truth about himself.

The agency of revelation is the school literary contest, whose winner ...
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Old School

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Overview

The protagonist of Tobias Wolff’s shrewdly—and at times devastatingly—observed first novel is a boy at an elite prep school in 1960. He is an outsider who has learned to mimic the negligent manner of his more privileged classmates. Like many of them, he wants more than anything on earth to become a writer. But to do that he must first learn to tell the truth about himself.

The agency of revelation is the school literary contest, whose winner will be awarded an audience with the most legendary writer of his time. As the fever of competition infects the boy and his classmates, fraying alliances, exposing weaknesses, Old School explores the ensuing deceptions and betrayals with an unblinking eye and a bottomless store of empathy. The result is further evidence that Wolff is an authentic American master.


From the Trade Paperback edition.
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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
In Old School, Tobias Wolff, noted short story writer and author of the acclaimed memoir This Boy's Life, offers us a resonant, poignant, and distinguished exploration of the seductive nature and overpowering allure of literature.

A self-conscious, unnamed Jewish youth attends prep school in New England in the early 1960s, where he's one of the top writers in his class. He participates in an annual literary contest judged by celebrity authors -- a contest as aggressively competitive as any high school sport.

Wolff's narrative is gripping, immensely readable, and deceptively simple. Revered literary icons such as Ernest Hemingway and Ayn Rand are authentically portrayed through the eyes of an idealistic boy on the verge of manhood. With immediacy and candor, Wolff gives us a glimpse into the world of a young artist trying to find his own identity within the unknown depths of art. Wolff also shows us the overwhelming attraction of literature for the insecure and the vulnerable.

Old School is a debut novel that offers all the impact of autobiography. It's a bittersweet tale of innocence lost in the wake of disappointment and adult understanding that will leave readers profoundly moved. Tom Piccirilli

The New York Times
Every reader will be impressed by the former president's expert ear for the undertones and hidden agendas of a political meeting. And clearly someone who spent four years negotiating accords and treaties with the Soviet Union and in the Middle East has no difficulty understanding that a Tory or a rebel may smile and smile and be a villain. —Max Byrd
Publishers Weekly
A scholarship boy at a New England prep school grapples with literary ambition and insecurity in this lucid, deceptively sedate novel, set in the early 1960s and narrated by the unnamed protagonist from the vantage point of adulthood. Each year, the school hosts a number of visiting writers, and the boys in the top form are allowed to compete for a private audience by composing a poem or story. The narrator judges the skills of his competitors, avidly exposing his classmates' weaknesses and calculating their potential ("I knew better than to write George off.... He could win.... Bill was a contender"). His own chances are hurt by his inability to be honest with himself and examine his ambivalent feelings about his Jewish roots. After failing to win audiences with Robert Frost and Ayn Rand, he is determined to be chosen by the last and best guest, legendary Ernest Hemingway. The anxiety of influence afflicts all the boys, but in crafting his final literary offering, the narrator discovers inspiration in imitation, finding his voice in someone else's. The novel's candid, retrospective narration ruefully depicts its protagonist's retreat further and further behind his public facade ("I'd been absorbed so far into my performance that nothing else came naturally"). Beneath its staid trappings, this is a sharply ironic novel, in which love of literature is counterbalanced by bitter disappointment (as one character bluntly puts it, "[Writing] just cuts you off and makes you selfish and doesn't really do any good"). Wolff, an acclaimed short story writer (The Night in Question, etc.) and author of the memoir This Boy's Life, here offers a delicate, pointed meditation on the treacherous charms of art. (Nov. 9) Forecast: This is Wolff's first full-length novel (and his first book in seven years) and as such will likely receive much critical attention. Fans of the author's short stories-regularly published in the New Yorker-should be pleased by his departure from form. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
KLIATT
Old School has the feel of a novel written 30 years ago, another crack at the turmoil of adolescent development in a school setting, like A Separate Peace. Here we seemingly have yet another prep school with a hothouse atmosphere, and what gets the hormones going isn't the big game, a Latin trivia contest, or a dead poets society: it is a writing contest where the winner gets to meet a famous guest writer. How much today's students will get the star worship of long-gone idols such as Robert Frost and Ernest Hemingway is anyone's guess. Perhaps the time period in which it's set, at the start of the '60s, allows moral issues to be set in sharper relief, as authors are freed of the need to include contemporary drugs, cynicism and the omnipresent vulgarity in language and culture. Here we see primarily the pure idealistic lure of doing great things and the ways young people (of course anyone!) can want something too much for their own good. Old School is as readable by 16 to 18-year-olds as earlier school favorites, but really plumbs more subtle territory in its depiction of the attractions and dangers of the writing life and, especially, its philosophical exploration of the meaning of honesty, academic and otherwise. It was chosen as a New York Times Notable Book for good reason. The novel is written with a great ear for language and a deceptive sophistication that creeps up on readers as they race through the scant 195 pages. Wolff, the acclaimed author of the memoir This Boy's Life, has written a wonderful book, but it does read as if it came out of a time vault. KLIATT Codes: SA—Recommended for senior high school students, advanced students, andadults. 2003, Random House, Vintage, 195p., Ages 15 to adult.
—Daniel Levinson
Library Journal
This first novel by Wolff (The Night in Question) falls into that odd subgenre: the prep-school coming-of-age story. On the surface, it is a plainly wrapped story of an anonymous narrator at an anonymous school in the 1950s who feels a writer's vocation but comes to an ethical crossroads. The school has regular writing competitions whose winners get to meet one of the great authors of the day, including Robert Frost and Ayn Rand (in a hilarious send up of objectivism). The lucky winner of the final contest will meet Ernest Hemingway, and so desperate is the narrator to triumph that he unwittingly falls into the dark waters of plagiarism. This story would be predictable if it did not shift so radically toward the conclusion. Ultimately, Wolff asks readers two probing questions: what is the nature of the narratives with which people represent themselves daily, and how do they run the danger of being undone by those stories if they are not careful? A big novel hidden in the structure of a small one, this work is highly recommended. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 7/03.]-David Hellman, San Francisco State Univ. Lib. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
School Library Journal
Adult/High School-The unnamed narrator of this coming-of-age story set in 1960 is a scholarship student at a prestigious New England prep school that has a tradition of inviting literary stars to the campus. Prior to the visit, the seniors are requested to write a piece to be "judged" by the guest. The winner is given a private meeting with the literary luminary and the story is published in the school paper. The narrator, having missed out on an audience with Robert Frost and Ayn Rand, is determined to meet with Ernest Hemingway. Much of this quiet novel is about writing and love of the written word. Merits of The Fountainhead or "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" are discussed by their authors and the students, and readers glean some information on the writing process and the cult of personality. In his fervent desire to be chosen, the narrator "borrows" an idea and reveals a secret about his heritage that he has carefully hidden. He wins, but the results of his story's publication are disastrous and his life is forever changed. The events and ideas in this thoughtful and thought-provoking novel remain with readers after the story is over and could provide meat for discussion. Teens will identify with the protagonist and internalize ideas on creativity as well as honesty and the importance of seemingly small decisions or occurrences in life.-Susan H. Woodcock, Fairfax County Public Library, Chantilly, VA Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A witty but ultimately rather pointless debut novel about life at a New England boarding school. It’s the early 1960s, and our unnamed narrator, like Wolff himself (as wonderfully described in his memoir, This Boy’s Life, 1988), is an outsider working his way carefully through an alien world. A poor boy from Baltimore who won a scholarship to an elite prep school up north, the narrator finds acceptance through literature, continually competing with his wealthier classmates to craft the perfect poem, story, or novel, as well as to win a seat on the editorial board of the school journal. One of the traditions at the school is to invite a famous author to address the students, and afterward to meet privately with the one boy who has written the best imitation of the author’s work. Doddering old Robert Frost passes through, just back from Kennedy’s inauguration. Later on, the boys are harangued by the venomous Ayn Rand. But the visit that arouses the most expectation is that of Ernest Hemingway, revered almost as a god by the young adventure seekers, especially since he’s known to have been a WWI comrade of one of the school’s most enigmatic teachers. The narrator succeeds in having his story chosen by Hemingway—a choice that turns out to have disastrous consequences for the boy and the teacher alike. Wolff writes well page by page, and he manages to evoke the supercharged atmosphere of ambitious teenagers cooped up together, but the narrator’s reminiscences have a distant, lifeless quality, as if he cannot, even years after the fact, make any sense of the catastrophe that he brought upon himself. An odd pastiche that never coheres: storywriter and editor Wolff (Best New American Voices2000, etc.) offers some nice vignettes that add up to considerably less than the sum of their parts. First printing of 40,000; author tour
From the Publisher
"Ingenious. . . . A tour de force. . . . Achieves a real profundity. "—The Boston Globe

"A sharply drawn, acutely felt novel of moral inquiry. . . . Wolff has put his readers in the landscape tracked across by writers as different as J. M. Coetzee, Philip Roth, and, going back, Conrad and Hawthorne." —The Washington Post Book World

"The kind of deceptively quiet novel that deserves a second, slow reading. An homage to the power of story to move, to awaken and even to transform." —The Plain Dealer

"Gentle, reserved, graceful. . . . Wolff again proves himself to be a writer of the highest order: part storyteller, part philosopher, someone deeply engaged in asking hard questions." —Los Angeles Times

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781400095254
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 8/31/2004
  • Series: Vintage
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Sales rank: 75,405
  • File size: 178 KB

Meet the Author

Tobias Wolff
Tobias Wolff lives in Northern California and teaches at Stanford University. He has received the Rea Award for excellence in the short story, the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and the PEN/Faulkner Award.


From the Trade Paperback edition.

Biography

Although Tobias Wolff has described his own youthful self as a liar and an imposter, he has achieved in his writing a level of honesty so unflinching it is almost painful to read. The author of two groundbreaking literary memoirs and several volumes of autobiographical fiction (short and long), Wolff is not just willing to lay bare his pretenses and self-deceptions; he feels an obligation to do so. Like Rumpelstilskin, he has spun experience, memory, and a remarkable gift for storytelling into literary gold.

Growing up in Birmingham, Alabama, Wolff barely knew his largely absent father, a man he and his older brother Geoffrey (also a writer) have described as a con artist and a compulsive liar. While he was still young, Wolff's parents officially split up. Geoffrey went to live with his father; Tobias stayed with his mother, who moved around from state to state in a steady, westerly progression that finally landed them in Washington. Never a good judge of character where men were concerned, his mother married an abusive martinet who made her son's life miserable. Wolff recounted his misspent, miserable youth in This Boy's Life, a groundbreaking 1989 memoir that later became a movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Ellen Barkin, and Robert De Niro.

Wolfe escaped his troubled home environment by falsifying an application to a private boys' school in the East and fabricating a resumé so remarkable it got him in. He flunked out before graduating, enlisted in the military, and was sent to Vietnam -- an experience he chronicled in a second memoir, In Pharaoh's Army: Memories of the Lost War, published in 1994. When he was discharged from service, he visited England, fell in love with the country, and studied, with the help of tutors, to gain entrance to Oxford. He graduated with honors in 1972 and received a scholarship to Stanford, where he received his master's degree.

A three-time winner of the O. Henry Award, Wolff is widely respected for his short stories. His first collection, In the Garden of the North American Martyrs, was published in 1981 and received rave reviews from such past masters of the genre as Annie Dillard and Joyce Carol Oates. Subsequent anthologies have only served to solidify his reputation as a preternaturally gifted storyteller. His 1984 novella The Barracks Thief won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction; and in 2003, he published his first novel, Old School, a shrewdly observed, heavily autobiographical coming-of-age tale set in an elite boys' boarding school.

Nearly as famous for his teaching as for his books, Wolff served on the faculty of Syracuse University for 17 years before accepting a position at Stanford in 1997 as a professor of English literature and creative writing. He is also a crackerjack editor and has shepherded several short story anthologies through to publication.

Good To Know

  • Leonardo DiCaprio beat out 400 hopefuls from Los Angeles, New York, Florida, and all places in between to star as Tobias Wolff in the film version of This Boy's Life.

  • Separated at a young age by their parent's divorce, Tobias and Geoffrey Wolff both grew up to become successful writers. Geoffrey's 1979 memoir of life with his con-artist father is called The Duke of Deception.

  • In an interview with The Boston Book Review, Tobias Wolfe discussed the phenomenon of selective memory this way: " Memory is something that you do; it is not something that you have. You remember, and when you remember you bring in all the resources of invention, calculation, self-interest and self-protection. Imagination is part of it too."
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      1. Also Known As:
        Tobias Jonathan Ansell Wolff (full name)
      2. Hometown:
        Northern California
      1. Date of Birth:
        June 19, 1945
      2. Place of Birth:
        Birmingham, Alabama
      1. Education:
        B.A., Oxford University, 1972; M.A., Stanford University, 1975

    Read an Excerpt

    CLASS PICTURE

    Robert Frost made his visit in November of 1960, just a week after the general election. It tells you something about our school that the prospect of his arrival cooked up more interest than the contest between Nixon and Kennedy, which for most of us was no contest at all. Nixon was a straight arrow and a scold. If he’d been one of us we would have glued his shoes to the floor. Kennedy, though—here was a warrior, an ironist, terse and unhysterical. He had his clothes under control. His wife was a fox. And he read and wrote books, one of which, Why England Slept, was required reading in my honors history seminar. We recognized Kennedy; we could still see in him the boy who would have been a favorite here, roguish and literate, with that almost formal insouciance that both enacted and discounted the fact of his class.

    But we wouldn’t have admitted that class played any part in our liking for Kennedy. Ours was not a snobbish school, or so it believed, and we made this as true as we could. Everyone did chores. Scholarship students could declare themselves or not, as they wished; the school itself gave no sign. It was understood that some of the boys might get a leg up from their famous names or great wealth, but if privilege immediately gave them a place, the rest of us liked to think it was a perilous place. You could never advance in it, you could only try not to lose it by talking too much about the debutante parties you went to or the Jaguar you earned by turning sixteen. And meanwhile, absent other distinctions, you were steadily giving ground to a system of honors that valued nothing you hadn’t done for yourself.

    That was the idea, so deeply held it was never spoken; you breathed it in with the smell of floor wax and wool and boys living close together in overheated rooms. Never spoken, so never challenged. And the other part of the idea was that whatever you did do for yourself, the school would accept as proof of worth beyond any other consideration. The field was wide open. Like all schools, ours prized its jocks, and they gave good value, especially the wrestlers, who merrily wiped the mat with grim, grunting boys up and down the Eastern Seaboard. The school liked its wrestlers and football players but also its cutthroat debaters and brilliant scholars, its singers and chess champs, its cheerleaders and actors and musicians and wits, and, not least of all, its scribblers.

    If the school had a snobbery it would confess to, this was its pride in being a literary place—quite aside from the glamorous writers who visited three times a year. The headmaster had studied with Robert Frost at Amherst and once published a collection of poetry, Sonnets Against the Storm, which it now pained him to be reminded of. Though listed in the library’s card catalogue, the book had vanished and the headmaster was rumored to have destroyed it. Perhaps with reason; but how many other heads of school had published even one poem, good or bad, let alone a whole volume? Dean Makepeace had been a friend of Hemingway’s during World War I and was said to have served as the model for Jake’s fishing buddy Bill in The Sun Also Rises. The other English masters carried themselves as if they too were intimates of Hemingway, and also of Shakespeare and Hawthorne and Donne. These men seemed to us a kind of chivalric order. Even boys without bookish hopes aped their careless style of dress and the ritual swordplay of their speech. And at the headmaster’s monthly teas I was struck by the way other masters floated at the fringe of their circle, as if warming themselves at a fire.

    How did they command such deference—English teachers? Compared to the men who taught physics or biology, what did they really know of the world? It seemed to me, and not only to me, that they knew exactly what was most worth knowing. Unlike our math and science teachers, who modestly stuck to their subjects, they tended to be polymaths. Adept as they were at dissection, they would never leave a poem or a novel strewn about in pieces like some butchered frog reeking of formaldehyde. They’d stitch it back together with history and psychology, philosophy, religion, and even, on occasion, science. Without pandering to your presumed desire to identify with the hero of a story, they made you feel that what mattered to the writer had consequence for you, too.

    Say you’ve just read Faulkner’s “Barn Burning.” Like the son in the story, you’ve sensed the faults in your father’s character. Thinking about them makes you uncomfortable; left alone, you’d probably close the book and move on to other thoughts. But instead you are taken in hand by a tall, brooding man with a distinguished limp who involves you and a roomful of other boys in the consideration of what it means to be a son. The loyalty that is your duty and your worth and your problem. The goodness of loyalty and its difficulties and snares, how loyalty might also become betrayal—of the self and the world outside the circle of blood.

    You’ve never had this conversation before, not with anyone. And even as it’s happening you understand that just as your father’s troubles with the world—emotional frailty, self-doubt, incomplete honesty—will not lead him to set it on fire, your own loyalty will never be the stuff of tragedy. You will not turn bravely and painfully from your father as the boy in the story does, but forsake him without regret. And as you accept that separation, it seems to happen; your father’s sad, fleshy face grows vague, and you blink it away and look up to where your master leans against his desk, one hand in a coat pocket, the other rubbing his bum knee as he listens desolately to the clever bore behind you saying something about bird imagery.



    There was a tradition at my school by which one boy was granted a private audience with each visiting writer. We contended for this honor by submitting a piece of our own work, poetry if the guest was a poet, fiction if a novelist. The writer chose the winner a week or so before arriving. The winner had his poem or story published in the school newspaper, and, later, a photograph of him walking the headmaster’s garden with the visiting writer.

    By custom, only sixth formers, boys in their final year, were allowed to compete. That meant I had spent the last three years looking on helplessly as boy after boy was plucked from the crowd of suitors and invited to stroll between the headmaster’s prize roses in the blessed and blessing presence of literature itself, to speak of deep matters and receive counsel, and afterward be able to say, You liked By Love Possessed? You’re kidding. I mean, Jesus, you ought to hear Mary McCarthy on the subject of Cozzens . . .

    It was hard to bear, especially when the winning manuscript came from the hand of someone you didn’t like, or, worse, from a boy who wasn’t even known to be a contender—though this had happened just once in my years of waiting in the wings, when an apparent Philistine named Hurst won an audience with Edmund Wilson for a series of satirical odes in Latin. But all the other winners came, predictably enough, from the same stockpond: boys who aced their English classes and submitted work to the school lit mag and hung around with other book-drunk boys.

    The writers didn’t know us, so no one could accuse them of playing favorites, but that didn’t stop us from disputing their choices. How could Robert Penn Warren prefer Kit Morton’s plain dying-grandmother story to Lance Leavitt’s stream-of-consciousness monologue from the viewpoint of a condemned man smoking his last cigarette while pouring daringly profane contempt over the judgment of a world that punishes you for one measly murder while ignoring the murder of millions? It didn’t seem right that Lance, who defied the decorums of language and bourgeois morality, should have to look on while Robert Penn Warren walked the garden with a sentimentalist like Kit (whose story, through its vulgar nakedness of feeling, had moved me to secret tears).

    I’m not exaggerating the importance to us of these trophy meetings. We cared. And I cared as much as anyone, because I not only read writers, I read about writers. I knew that Maupassant, whose stories I loved, had been taken up when young by Flaubert and Turgenev; Faulkner by Sherwood Anderson; Hemingway by Fitzgerald and Pound and Gertrude Stein. All these writers were welcomed by other writers. It seemed to follow that you needed such a welcome, yet before this could happen you somehow, anyhow, had to meet the writer who was to welcome you. My idea of how this worked wasn’t low or even practical. I never thought about making connections. My aspirations were mystical. I wanted to receive the laying on of hands that had written living stories and poems, hands that had touched the hands of other writers. I wanted to be anointed.



    Frost’s visit was announced in early October. At first the news made me giddy, but that night I grew morose with the dread of defeat. I couldn’t sleep. Finally I got up and sat at my desk with two notebooks full of poetry I’d written when taking a break from stories. While my roommate muttered in his dreams I bent over the pages and read piece after piece like:

    song (#8)

    to the hopeless of the hopeless of the night

    i sing my song and hopeless end my song

    and do not pity me for i am without hope and

    do not pity them for they are without hope and

    There the poem ended. Beneath it I had written fragment. I’d written fragment beneath most of the poems in the notebooks, and this description was in every case accurate. Each of them had been composed in some fever of ardor or philosophy that deserted me before I could bring it to the point of significance. The few poems that I had finished seemed, in the hard circle of light thrown by the gooseneck lamp, even more disappointing. The beauty of a fragment is that it still supports the hope of brilliant completeness. I thought of stitching several of them together into a sequence, a la “The Waste Land,” but that they would thereby become meaningful seemed too much to hope for.

    I would have to write something new. The deadline for submission was three weeks away. I could write a poem in that time, but what kind of poem should I write? Aside from being good, it would have to stand out from those of my competitors. But at least I knew—barring some dark horse like Hurst—who my competitors were.

    There were three.



    George Kellogg was the editor of our literary review, Troubadour. The review was very old and still appeared in its original format, on stiff heavy pages, in an engraved typeface that made every poem and story look like a time-worn classic. I had wanted the editorship myself and lost it by a single vote of the outgoing board, which left me with a dreary consolation title: director of publication. This was a disappointment, but not a blow. George had earned the position, tirelessly soliciting manuscripts from other boys, burning the midnight oil to put the latest number to bed before deadline. I did none of those things. Troubadour was the only gallery I had for my work; it never occurred to me to recruit rivals.

    The very fact that George had earned the editorship made it appear less enviable. I wasn’t after an A in Citizenship. Not that George couldn’t write. He was a well-schooled, proficient writer, mainly of poetry. He always wrote in traditional forms, the villanelle in particular, and his subject was loneliness: an old man picking his way across a fairground the morning after the fair; a child waiting outside a Greyhound station for a ride that doesn’t come; a darkened theater after everyone has left save one old woman slowly gathering her things, dreading the long walk home to her empty room.

    She dons her scarf, she dons her balding fur;

    She takes her time, ’til Time at last takes her.

    You could tell, reading George’s poetry, that he knew his stuff. His lines scanned, he used alliteration and personification. Metonymy. His poems always had a theme and were full of sympathy for the little people of the world. They bored me stiff but George had expertise and gave occasional intimations of power in reserve.

    I didn’t really believe he would win. He seemed more professor than writer, with his watch chain and hairy tweed cap and slow, well-considered speech. The effect was less stuffy than dear, and that was George’s problem; he was too dear, too kind. I never heard him say a hard word about anyone, and it visibly grieved him when the rest of us made sport of our schoolmates, especially those with hopes of being published in Troubadour. At our editorial meetings he argued for almost every submis- sion, even knowing that we could take only a fraction of them. It was maddening. You couldn’t tell whether he actually liked a piece or just hated turning people down. This provoked the rest of us to an even greater ferocity of judgment than we were naturally inclined to.

    George’s benevolence did not serve his writing well. For all its fluent sympathy, it was toothless. I had some magazine pictures of Ernest Hemingway tacked above my desk. In one he was baring his choppers at the camera in a way that left no doubt of his capacity for rending and tearing, which seemed plainly connected to his strength as a writer.

    Still, I knew better than to write George off. If he just once let a strong feeling get the better of his manners, he might land a good one. He could win.

    So could Bill White, my roommate. Bill had already written most of a novel, the first chapter of which we’d published in Troubadour. Two men and a woman are isolated in a hunting lodge during a blizzard. The narrator does not explain who they are, how they got there, or why they’re together. But as you read on, you begin to get the picture: one of the men is a famous actor, the woman is his wife, and the second man is a surgeon. The men are old friends, but it emerges that the actor’s wife is having an affair with the surgeon, who, it turns out, had once saved the actor’s life with an impromptu tracheotomy during a safari.

    Have to take my hat off to you, said Montague. Tricky bit of tradecraft, given the circumstances. Storm blowing the damned tent down, and the beaters into the liquor. I shan’t forget it.

    Not at all, not at all, said Dr. Coates. The merest intern could have done as well—probably better.

    I shan’t forget it, Montague repeated. I’m forever in your debt, he added coldly.

    Aren’t we all, said Ashley, pouring herself another scotch. She stared at the falling snow. Whatever would we do without the good doctor’s services?

    You bitch, said Montague. You perfectly beautiful bitch.

    Though Bill hadn’t let me read the rest of his novel—he was letting it settle before the final polish—I doubted that the hunting party’s meticulously described rifles would stay locked in their cases for long.

    Bill’s people weren’t only genteel, they were gentile. So, I assumed, was Bill. He had bright green eyes and pale skin that flushed easily in heat or cold. His manner was courtly, amused, and for some reason he seemed especially amused by me, which I liked and also didn’t like. He played varsity squash. It had never occurred to me that he might be Jewish until his father came to visit, the spring of the previous year. Mr. White was a widower and lived in Peru, where he owned a textile company. He had Bill invite me for dinner at the village inn, and seeing the two together produced a certain shock: both of them tall and fair and green-eyed, Mr. White an older version of his son in every respect save the Brooklyn in his voice and an almost eager warmth. He referred often to their family, and it soon became obvious that they were Jewish. I had roomed with Bill for two years by then and he’d never given me the slightest hint. Though I practiced some serious dissembling of my own, I’d never suspected it of Bill. I thought of him as honest, if aloof. Who was he, really? All that time together, and it turned out I didn’t know him any better than he knew me.

    Mr. White gave us a good feed that night. He was a friendly, comfortable man, but I was still trying to catch up and I’m sure I looked at him with more than polite curiosity. If Bill noticed, he didn’t let on and afterward gave no sign of feeling compromised by my knowledge that he was not who he seemed to be. That made me wonder if maybe he’d never meant to seem not Jewish—if my surprise was simply the effect of my own narrowness and anxiety.

    I didn’t really believe that, of course. I believed that Bill had meant to deceive, and that his aplomb in the face of discovery was not innocence but a further artifice by which he masked his disquiet and, intentionally or not, forced me to probe my own response. Why not? That’s how I would’ve carried it off. We never talked about any of this, naturally. For a while I worried that Bill might hold what I knew against me, but he didn’t seem to. Maybe he was relieved to have someone know. That I could understand, very well.

    When the time came to choose roommates for our final year we didn’t even bother to discuss it. Of course we would room together. Nobody got along better, even if real friendship eluded us.

    Bill was a contender. His characters were stilted but he had confidence and his stories were eventful and closely detailed. Most of the work in Troubadour suffered from generality. The more general, the more universal—that seemed to be the guiding principle. Bill’s talent was particularity. How the snow creaked underfoot on a very cold clear day, or what the low white sun looked like through a tangle of black branches. The tackiness of a just-oiled rifle stock, the tearing sound of a bored woman brushing out her long hair in front of a fire. Everything in his work was particular and true except the people. That hurt the longer pieces, but in Bill’s shortest, most implicit stories, and in his occasional poems, the exactitude and poise of his writing could carry you away. He had me worried.

    So did Jeff Purcell, known as Little Jeff because we had another Jeff Purcell in our class, his cousin—Big Jeff. In fact Little Jeff wasn’t little and Big Jeff wasn’t big, just bigger than Little Jeff, who resented Big Jeff, partly no doubt for inadvertently imposing this odious nickname on him. Little Jeff was a friend of mine, so like his other friends I called him Purcell.

    Purcell habitually kept his arms folded across his chest like a Civil War general in a daguerrotype. This bellicose pose suited him. Under his bristling crew cut he cultivated a sulfurous gift for invective and contempt. He was the Herod of our editorial sessions, poised to strike down every innocent who presumed to offer us a manuscript. He had exacting standards: moral, political, aesthetic. Purcell even flouted the timeless protocol of pretending to admire the work of his fellow editors. At one of our meetings he declared that a story of mine called “Suicide Note” read as if it’d been written after the narrator blew his brains out.

    Purcell came from a rich, social family, but you wouldn’t have guessed it from his stories and poems; or maybe you would. His subject was the injustice of relations between high and low. He had written a ballad about a miner being sent deep into the earth to perish in a cave-in while the mine owner hand-feeds filet mignon to his hunting dogs, cooing to them in baby talk; and his last Troubadour piece was an epistolary story in which a general writes congratulatory letters to various grieving women after getting their husbands and sons slaughtered.

    You may rejoice for your fallen hero, knowing that his heart was perforated for our glorious cause, and you and your little ones can rest assured that his missing head, wherever it may be, is filled with the pride of sacrifice and radiant memories of the homeland for which he died so eagerly.

    This story was, I felt sure, inspired by a certain passage in A Farewell to Arms, but when it came up for consideration I bit my tongue and let it go. It wasn’t bad. Cartoonish, of course, like all of Purcell’s work, lurid and overwrought, to be sure, but venomously alive. Anyway, I myself was in debt to Hemingway—up to my ears. So was Bill. We even talked like Hemingway characters, though in travesty, as if to deny our discipleship: That is your bed, and it is a good bed, and you must make it and you must make it well. Or: Today is the day of meatloaf. The meatloaf is swell. It is swell but when it is gone the not-having meatloaf will be tragic and the meatloaf man will not come anymore.



    All of us owed someone, Hemingway or cummings or Kerouac—or all of them, and more. We wouldn’t have admitted to it but the knowledge was surely there, because imitation was the only charge we never brought against the submissions we mocked so cruelly. There was no profit in it. Once crystallized, consciousness of influence would have doomed the collective and necessary fantasy that our work was purely our own. Even Purcell kept mum on that subject.

    He was a threat. His attack was broad, even crude, but you could feel his discomfort with the cushion he’d been born on, and his fear that it would turn him into one of the fatuous bloodsuckers he wrote about. If he humanized his targets, muted his voice, used a knife instead of a cudgel . . . Yet he didn’t necessarily have to do any of that. In a field of stiffs, one of his cartoons could win for simply being alive.



    These, then, were the boys who stood between me and Robert Frost. Of course there were other self-confessed writers in my form, but I’d read their English papers and Troubadour submissions and seen nothing to worry me except their desire. So much desire! Why did so many of us want to be writers? It seemed unreasonable. But there were reasons.

    The atmosphere of our school crackled with sexual static. We had the occasional dance with Miss Cobb’s Academy and a few other girls’ schools, but these brief affairs only cranked up the charge; and though from day to day we saw the master’s wives, Roberta Ramsey alone had the goods to enter our dreams. The absence of an actual girl to compete for meant that every other prize became feminized. For honors in sport, scholarship, music, and writing we cracked our heads together like mountain rams, and to make your mark as a writer was equal as proof of puissance to a brilliant season on the gridiron.

    This aspect of my ambition was obscure to me at the time. But there was another that I did recognize, though vaguely, and almost in spite of myself: the problem of class.

    Our school was proud of its hierarchy of character and deeds. It believed this system was superior to the one at work outside, and that it would wean us from habits of undue pride and deference. This was a good dream and we tried to live it out, even while knowing that we were actors in a play, and that outside the theater was a world we would have to reckon with when the curtain closed and the doors were flung open.

    Class was a fact. Not just the clothes a boy wore, but how he wore them. How he spent his summers. The sports he knew how to play. His way of turning cold at the mention of money, or at the spectacle of ambition too nakedly revealed. You felt it as a depth of ease in certain boys, their innate, affable assurance that they would not have to struggle for a place in the world, that it had already been reserved for them; a depth of ease or, in the case of Purcell and a few others, a sullen antipathy toward the padding that hemmed them in and muffled the edges of life. Yet even in the act of kicking against it they were defined by it, and protected by it, and to some extent unconscious of it. Purcell himself had a collection of first editions you’d almost have to own a mine to pay for.

    These things I understood instinctively. I never gave them voice, not even within the privacy of my thoughts, precisely because the school’s self-conception was itself unspoken and thus inarguable. From my first days there I grasped and gratefully entered the dream but at the same time behaved as if I knew better, as in the following instance.

    The summer before entering the school I’d worked as a dishwasher in the kitchen crew at a YMCA camp outside Seattle. I was the youngest, and the other guys rode me pretty hard until Hartmut, the chef, saw what was going on and headed them off. He did this obliquely, never defending me directly but bearing down on the hardest kidders by giving them the shit work, the grease trap or the fryolator. Eventually some subliminal sense of cause and effect must have taken hold, because they eased up and then we all got along fine. After dinner, when the kitchen was polished to his satisfaction, Hartmut let us play Tom Lehrer albums on his old portable. Though he didn’t get the jokes, he enjoyed our hilarity. Ah! You boys! You crazy crazy boys!

    Hartmut was from Austria. He’d been in the States for many years but his English was eccentric and often ludicrous. He wore an actual chef’s hat and a white uniform that he changed every day. He cooked for those hot-dog-loving kids as if they were royalty—soufflés, pastries of airy lightness, quiches, many-layered tortes. He had great pride and didn’t allow himself to notice when the little pagans made gagging noises over their eggs Benedict.

    Pink and thick and strong, Hartmut ran his kitchen like a ship, everything in its place, all orders to be obeyed on the instant. Though he appeared not to have a family, his love for children was obvious and utterly benevolent. He also loved music. When the record player wasn’t blasting out waltzes and light opera, he whistled and sang. Some of his melodies were catchy and stuck in my head. And that’s what landed me in trouble.

    I’d been at the school for five or six weeks, no more. I was struggling in my classes but every morning I felt a rush of joy to wake to the bells ringing in the clock tower and go to my win- dow and think, My God! I’m really here! In my pleasure I was whistling a tune of Hartmut’s as I climbed the dormitory stairs after breakfast. Gershon, one of the school handymen, was a few steps ahead of me, carrying a laundry bag on his narrow shoulders. He had a plodding gait even on the level; here on the stairs he barely moved at all. I was afraid I’d bump into him if I tried to pass, so I kept pace a few steps behind, whistling all the while. Gershon gave off a stale smell that I’d whiffed before but never so strongly as in this tight passage.

    He slowed even more. I hung back obligingly and continued to whistle, my song resounding pleasantly in the stone stairwell. Then Gershon stopped and turned. He looked down at me with his long face turned gray, the laundry bag slumped on his shoulders like a lamb in a Bible illustration. I could hear him breathe, fast and shallow. He said something in what I thought was another language—I knew he was a foreigner of some kind. His too-white teeth clicked as he talked; I watched them with helpless fascination. Then he stopped. He appeared to be waiting for an answer.

    Name! he said. Vat your name!

    I told him.

    Go den! Go! Go!

    I nudged past him and went to my room, and by the time classes started I’d written it off as a misunderstanding: the old crab must’ve thought I’d been trying to hurry him. When a prefect called me out of Latin during second period and sent me to the dean’s office, I assumed it was to receive a lecture about my abysmal grades. I was on scholarship, and had been nervously fearing a summons.

    I hadn’t met Dean Makepeace yet but I knew who he was: he was Ernest Hemingway’s friend. He closed the door behind me and looked me over without a word of greeting, then motioned me toward the hot seat. He let himself down in the chair behind the desk and began to leaf through a file. Mine, I supposed.

    He reeked of tobacco. Most of the masters did. It usually seemed a pleasant, paternal smell, though in my worried state I was nearly sickened by it. Before now I had seen Dean Makepeace only from a distance, at his table in the dining hall or tapping his way across campus, often conducted by an escort of older boys. With his height and his nose and his long black cane he’d appeared regal but benign. At this range he seemed neither. Dense dark hairs bristled from his ears and nostrils. Cigarette smoke had tinged his white moustache with yellow, and his suit jacket was smudged with ash. I had the impression that he wasn’t actually reading the file, just occupying himself with it while he decided how to carve me up, or maybe to give me time to feel the full weight of my laziness and ingratitude and the complete disappointment of everyone with hopes for me.

    My chair had a high ladder-back that held me bolt upright. Shelves of dark, uniformly bound books rose up on either side, floor to high ceiling. Much as I loved books, there was something unfriendly about these; when I came across Meredith’s poem “Lucifer in Starlight” later that year and read the line The army of unalterable law, I thought not of the stars but of those loom- ing tomes. Behind his desk the leaded window was open to the breeze. I heard a burst of laughter from one of the classrooms on the quad. It stopped suddenly.

    Dean Makepeace laid the file on the desk. Explain yourself, he said.

    Well, sir, I was pretty far behind when I got here.

    What?

    Not to make excuses. I know I need to work harder.

    Don’t change the subject. Do you have any idea what that man has been through?

    Sir?

    You heard me. I am unable to understand how anyone could behave like this to a man in Gershon’s position. Please explain.

    Dean Makepeace said all this calmly enough, but I wilted under his gaze. He wasn’t angry. Anger, which I knew to be transient and generally at least part theater, I was used to and could easily bear. What I saw was dislike, which can’t be shrugged off, which abides.

    I didn’t mean to hurry Gershon, I said. I’m sorry if he got that impression.

    Oh, was that it? He wasn’t moving fast enough, so you thought you’d give him a little marching music. Why don’t you strike up the band for me?

    Sir?

    I want you to sing me what you sang to Gershon.

    Well, I was whistling a song. I don’t know the words.

    Whistle away, then.

    My mouth was so dry I couldn’t get a note out. I made a few false starts and gave up.

    Come on. Let’s have it.

    I can’t.

    You were doing okay this morning, weren’t you? All right—hum the damned thing.

    I did. It sounded different, hummed, but I could tell Dean Makepeace recognized it and that this wasn’t helping matters. I stopped and said, Sir, what is this song?

    Don’t play dumb with me, boy.

    I’m not! I’m not playing dumb. What did I do wrong? The self-pity of this question brought me close to tears.

    You say you don’t know what this song is?

    I shook my head furiously.

    Where did you learn it, then?

    A man I worked with. Hartmut. I picked it up from him. The tune.

    You must know other songs.

    Yes sir.

    Many other songs. Yet of all the songs you know, you just happened to whistle this one to Gershon. To Gershon, of all people!

    I wasn’t whistling to him. I was just whistling. And Gershon was there.

    Was there some occasion for this outbreak of melody?

    Nothing special. I was feeling happy, that’s all.

    Dean Makepeace leaned back in his chair. Happy. What were you happy about?

    Being here.

    He stroked his moustache. You’ll want to be somewhat discreet about that, he said. Honestly, boy, what have you heard about Gershon?

    Nothing. I see him around, that’s all.

    So you don’t know anything about him?

    No sir.

    Have you ever heard of the “Horst Wessel Song”?

    You mean the Christmas carol?

    No, no. The “Horst Wessel Song” is a Nazi marching song, and a very ugly piece of work it is, too. That’s what you were singing. Whistling.

    Then it all came home. As a child of the superior, disgusted, victorious nation I had the usual store of images to go with the words Nazi and Jew, and I was putting Gershon’s face to them even before Dean Makepeace began to tell me what had befallen Gershon and his family, of whom none had survived but a daughter who was now in a French mental hospital. As he spoke I felt my eyes tearing up, partly from pity and also because the sadness of the story gave me cover to mourn my own plight, unjustly accused and humiliated by a great man of the school only a few weeks into my first term—a man I’d hoped to study with one day, who might even befriend me.

    It was too much. I started to weep—to blubber. My lack of control mortified me and I turned in my chair, hunched away from him. I tried to stop but couldn’t. I felt a hand on my back. Dean Makepeace kept it there for a moment, then gave my shoulder a squeeze and left the room.

    By the time he came back I had exhausted myself. He offered me a glass of water and waited beside my chair. The water was cold. I drank most of it in a gulp, then finished it off and handed Dean Makepeace the glass. Though he didn’t say anything, I understood that our meeting was over. I got up and told him I was sorry about Gershon, that I’d had no idea . . .

    I know. I know you didn’t.

    But how did he know? How could he, in the face of such an inconceivable coincidence? Surely some doubt remained. I had the means to prove myself, but already knew I’d never make use of it.

    Dean Makepeace walked me to the door. He shook my hand and said, If you’ll be good enough to clear things up with Gershon, we can put this to rest. The sooner the better. Tonight, say. After dinner.

    And get those grades up.



    Gershon lived in the basement of Holmes, the sixth-form dormitory, just off the boiler room. Even down there I could hear the boys upstairs, blustering and braying, full of the knowledge that at last the school was theirs. Gershon let me inside the door but no farther, and waited while I began to explain myself.

    The room was close and smelled of onions. Gershon had been sewing something, and the table was strewn with scraps of cloth. No books in sight. No pictures. Insulated pipes ran across the ceiling.

    As I talked he kept his face averted, his mouth set in a puckered line; he wasn’t wearing his teeth. He would neither speak to me nor give any sign that he was listening. It was obvious that he regarded my visit as a galling evolution of the ugliness I’d already dealt him, and that he’d agreed to it only because he thought he had no choice. I tried to keep my explanation simple and slow. I couldn’t be sure he understood me, though I had the feeling he did and that he didn’t believe a word I was saying.

    The story sounded incredible even to me, and its grotesque, improbable accidents—that song, of all songs; Gershon, of all people—robbed my voice of conviction and, finally, of sense. I started to tell him about learning the song from Hartmut, then got lost in describing what a nice guy Hartmut was and how he must not have known what the song was about, or maybe he’d forgotten and just remembered the tune . . . Gershon stared into the corner, sucking his cheeks, enduring me, waiting for the lies to stop and for me to leave him in peace. And still I pushed on. I wanted him to believe me, for my own sake of course, but also for his, so he’d know there weren’t any Nazis here.

    Again it occurred to me that I could prove my case: I could tell him that my own father was Jewish. This was true, though he himself never mentioned the fact, not even to me, his only child. My mother had told me only a year before, not long before she died, and I had no idea what it should mean to me. I had been raised Catholic; up to now my teachers had been nuns and the occasional priest, my social world entirely gentile. I knew nothing about Jews except some of their recent history. If I’d learned that my father was descended from Southern Baptists, would that make me a Southern Baptist? No. I would still be the boy I’d been the day before I came into this knowledge. The same with his Jewish ancestry. It was a fact but not a defining fact, neither to be asserted nor denied.

    But it had come to a kind of question twice that day, and both times I’d chosen to deny it. Telling Dean Makepeace or Gershon about my father might not have cleared me; Jews can be savage Jew-baiters, as everyone knows, but I didn’t know. I thought I held a trump card, and my refusal to play it amounted to a deception.

    The scene with Gershon could be spun into a certain kind of story. The new boy comes to clear things up with the cranky handyman he’s unwittingly affronted and ends up confiding his own Jewish blood, whereupon the handyman melts and a friendship ensues. In time the man who has lost his sons becomes a true father to the boy, enfolding him in the tradition his own false father has denied him. And what irony: the ambitious, upward-striving boy must descend to a basement room to learn the wisdom not being taught in the snob factory upstairs.

    Fat chance. I wanted out of there, and I was confiding nothing. I’d let Gershon think the worst of me before I would claim any connection to him, or implicate myself in the fate that had beached him in this room. Why would I want to talk my way into his unlucky tribe? All this came over me as a gathering sense of suffocation. I stammered out a final apology and left, taking the stairs at a run as soon as the door clicked shut behind me.

    It had been different that morning with Dean Makepeace, calmer and clearer. I simply decided that it would be better not to use the Jewish defense. There was no obvious reason for being cagey. In my short time at the school I’d seen no bullying or manifest contempt of that kind, and never did. Yet it seemed to me that the Jewish boys, even the popular ones, even the athletes, had a subtly charged field around them, an air of apartness. And somehow the feeling must have settled in me that this apartness did not emanate from the boys themselves, from any quality or wish of their own, but from the school—as if some guardian spirit, indifferent to their personal worth, had risen from the fields and walkways and weathered stone to breathe that apartness upon them.

    This was no more than a tremor of apprehension, and though I acted on it I did not allow it to occupy my thoughts. But it never really deserted me. It became a shadow on my faith in the school. Much as I wanted to believe in its egalitarian vision of itself, I never dared put it to the test.

    Other boys must have felt the same intimations. Maybe that was why so many of them wanted to become writers. Maybe it seemed to them, as it did to me, that to be a writer was to escape the problems of blood and class. Writers formed a society of their own outside the common hierarchy. This gave them a power not conferred by privilege—the power to create images of the system they stood apart from, and thereby to judge it.

    I hadn’t heard anyone speak of a writer as having power. Truth, yes. Wit, understanding, even courage—but never power. We had talked in class about Pasternak and his troubles, and the long history of Russian writers being imprisoned and killed for not writing as the Party wished. Augustus Caesar had sent our Latin master’s beloved Ovid into exile. And when the progressive Mr. Ramsey—himself a gift from England—wanted to show us what mushrooms we all were, he recalled our nation’s inhospitality to Lolita, which he considered the century’s greatest novel since Ulysses—another victim of churlish American censors!

    Yet the effect of all these stories was to make me feel not Caesar’s power, but his fear of Ovid. And why would Caesar fear Ovid, except for knowing that neither his divinity nor all his legions could protect him from a good line of poetry.


    From the Hardcover edition.
    Read More Show Less

    First Chapter

    CLASS PICTURE

    Robert Frost made his visit in November of 1960, just a week after the general election. It tells you something about our school that the prospect of his arrival cooked up more interest than the contest between Nixon and Kennedy, which for most of us was no contest at all. Nixon was a straight arrow and a scold. If he'd been one of us we would have glued his shoes to the floor. Kennedy, though—here was a warrior, an ironist, terse and unhysterical. He had his clothes under control. His wife was a fox. And he read and wrote books, one of which, Why England Slept, was required reading in my honors history seminar. We recognized Kennedy; we could still see in him the boy who would have been a favorite here, roguish and literate, with that almost formal insouciance that both enacted and discounted the fact of his class.

    But we wouldn't have admitted that class played any part in our liking for Kennedy. Ours was not a snobbish school, or so it believed, and we made this as true as we could. Everyone did chores. Scholarship students could declare themselves or not, as they wished; the school itself gave no sign. It was understood that some of the boys might get a leg up from their famous names or great wealth, but if privilege immediately gave them a place, the rest of us liked to think it was a perilous place. You could never advance in it, you could only try not to lose it by talking too much about the debutante parties you went to or the Jaguar you earned by turning sixteen. And meanwhile, absent other distinctions, you were steadily giving ground to a system of honors that valued nothing you hadn't done for yourself.

    That was the idea, so deeplyheld it was never spoken; you breathed it in with the smell of floor wax and wool and boys living close together in overheated rooms. Never spoken, so never challenged. And the other part of the idea was that whatever you did do for yourself, the school would accept as proof of worth beyond any other consideration. The field was wide open. Like all schools, ours prized its jocks, and they gave good value, especially the wrestlers, who merrily wiped the mat with grim, grunting boys up and down the Eastern Seaboard. The school liked its wrestlers and football players but also its cutthroat debaters and brilliant scholars, its singers and chess champs, its cheerleaders and actors and musicians and wits, and, not least of all, its scribblers.

    If the school had a snobbery it would confess to, this was its pride in being a literary place—quite aside from the glamorous writers who visited three times a year. The headmaster had studied with Robert Frost at Amherst and once published a collection of poetry, Sonnets Against the Storm, which it now pained him to be reminded of. Though listed in the library's card catalogue, the book had vanished and the headmaster was rumored to have destroyed it. Perhaps with reason; but how many other heads of school had published even one poem, good or bad, let alone a whole volume? Dean Makepeace had been a friend of Hemingway's during World War I and was said to have served as the model for Jake's fishing buddy Bill in The Sun Also Rises. The other English masters carried themselves as if they too were intimates of Hemingway, and also of Shakespeare and Hawthorne and Donne. These men seemed to us a kind of chivalric order. Even boys without bookish hopes aped their careless style of dress and the ritual swordplay of their speech. And at the headmaster's monthly teas I was struck by the way other masters floated at the fringe of their circle, as if warming themselves at a fire.

    How did they command such deference—English teachers? Compared to the men who taught physics or biology, what did they really know of the world? It seemed to me, and not only to me, that they knew exactly what was most worth knowing. Unlike our math and science teachers, who modestly stuck to their subjects, they tended to be polymaths. Adept as they were at dissection, they would never leave a poem or a novel strewn about in pieces like some butchered frog reeking of formaldehyde. They'd stitch it back together with history and psychology, philosophy, religion, and even, on occasion, science. Without pandering to your presumed desire to identify with the hero of a story, they made you feel that what mattered to the writer had consequence for you, too.

    Say you've just read Faulkner's “Barn Burning.” Like the son in the story, you've sensed the faults in your father's character. Thinking about them makes you uncomfortable; left alone, you'd probably close the book and move on to other thoughts. But instead you are taken in hand by a tall, brooding man with a distinguished limp who involves you and a roomful of other boys in the consideration of what it means to be a son. The loyalty that is your duty and your worth and your problem. The goodness of loyalty and its difficulties and snares, how loyalty might also become betrayal—of the self and the world outside the circle of blood.

    You've never had this conversation before, not with anyone. And even as it's happening you understand that just as your father's troubles with the world—emotional frailty, self-doubt, incomplete honesty—will not lead him to set it on fire, your own loyalty will never be the stuff of tragedy. You will not turn bravely and painfully from your father as the boy in the story does, but forsake him without regret. And as you accept that separation, it seems to happen; your father's sad, fleshy face grows vague, and you blink it away and look up to where your master leans against his desk, one hand in a coat pocket, the other rubbing his bum knee as he listens desolately to the clever bore behind you saying something about bird imagery.



    There was a tradition at my school by which one boy was granted a private audience with each visiting writer. We contended for this honor by submitting a piece of our own work, poetry if the guest was a poet, fiction if a novelist. The writer chose the winner a week or so before arriving. The winner had his poem or story published in the school newspaper, and, later, a photograph of him walking the headmaster's garden with the visiting writer.

    By custom, only sixth formers, boys in their final year, were allowed to compete. That meant I had spent the last three years looking on helplessly as boy after boy was plucked from the crowd of suitors and invited to stroll between the headmaster's prize roses in the blessed and blessing presence of literature itself, to speak of deep matters and receive counsel, and afterward be able to say, You liked By Love Possessed? You're kidding. I mean, Jesus, you ought to hear Mary McCarthy on the subject of Cozzens . . .

    It was hard to bear, especially when the winning manuscript came from the hand of someone you didn't like, or, worse, from a boy who wasn't even known to be a contender—though this had happened just once in my years of waiting in the wings, when an apparent Philistine named Hurst won an audience with Edmund Wilson for a series of satirical odes in Latin. But all the other winners came, predictably enough, from the same stockpond: boys who aced their English classes and submitted work to the school lit mag and hung around with other book-drunk boys.

    The writers didn't know us, so no one could accuse them of playing favorites, but that didn't stop us from disputing their choices. How could Robert Penn Warren prefer Kit Morton's plain dying-grandmother story to Lance Leavitt's stream-of-consciousness monologue from the viewpoint of a condemned man smoking his last cigarette while pouring daringly profane contempt over the judgment of a world that punishes you for one measly murder while ignoring the murder of millions? It didn't seem right that Lance, who defied the decorums of language and bourgeois morality, should have to look on while Robert Penn Warren walked the garden with a sentimentalist like Kit (whose story, through its vulgar nakedness of feeling, had moved me to secret tears).

    I'm not exaggerating the importance to us of these trophy meetings. We cared. And I cared as much as anyone, because I not only read writers, I read about writers. I knew that Maupassant, whose stories I loved, had been taken up when young by Flaubert and Turgenev; Faulkner by Sherwood Anderson; Hemingway by Fitzgerald and Pound and Gertrude Stein. All these writers were welcomed by other writers. It seemed to follow that you needed such a welcome, yet before this could happen you somehow, anyhow, had to meet the writer who was to welcome you. My idea of how this worked wasn't low or even practical. I never thought about making connections. My aspirations were mystical. I wanted to receive the laying on of hands that had written living stories and poems, hands that had touched the hands of other writers. I wanted to be anointed.



    Frost's visit was announced in early October. At first the news made me giddy, but that night I grew morose with the dread of defeat. I couldn't sleep. Finally I got up and sat at my desk with two notebooks full of poetry I'd written when taking a break from stories. While my roommate muttered in his dreams I bent over the pages and read piece after piece like:

    song (#8)

    to the hopeless of the hopeless of the night

    i sing my song and hopeless end my song

    and do not pity me for i am without hope and

    do not pity them for they are without hope and

    There the poem ended. Beneath it I had written fragment. I'd written fragment beneath most of the poems in the notebooks, and this description was in every case accurate. Each of them had been composed in some fever of ardor or philosophy that deserted me before I could bring it to the point of significance. The few poems that I had finished seemed, in the hard circle of light thrown by the gooseneck lamp, even more disappointing. The beauty of a fragment is that it still supports the hope of brilliant completeness. I thought of stitching several of them together into a sequence, a la “The Waste Land,” but that they would thereby become meaningful seemed too much to hope for.

    I would have to write something new. The deadline for submission was three weeks away. I could write a poem in that time, but what kind of poem should I write? Aside from being good, it would have to stand out from those of my competitors. But at least I knew—barring some dark horse like Hurst—who my competitors were.

    There were three.



    George Kellogg was the editor of our literary review, Troubadour. The review was very old and still appeared in its original format, on stiff heavy pages, in an engraved typeface that made every poem and story look like a time-worn classic. I had wanted the editorship myself and lost it by a single vote of the outgoing board, which left me with a dreary consolation title: director of publication. This was a disappointment, but not a blow. George had earned the position, tirelessly soliciting manuscripts from other boys, burning the midnight oil to put the latest number to bed before deadline. I did none of those things. Troubadour was the only gallery I had for my work; it never occurred to me to recruit rivals.

    The very fact that George had earned the editorship made it appear less enviable. I wasn't after an A in Citizenship. Not that George couldn't write. He was a well-schooled, proficient writer, mainly of poetry. He always wrote in traditional forms, the villanelle in particular, and his subject was loneliness: an old man picking his way across a fairground the morning after the fair; a child waiting outside a Greyhound station for a ride that doesn't come; a darkened theater after everyone has left save one old woman slowly gathering her things, dreading the long walk home to her empty room.

    She dons her scarf, she dons her balding fur;

    She takes her time, 'til Time at last takes her.

    You could tell, reading George's poetry, that he knew his stuff. His lines scanned, he used alliteration and personification. Metonymy. His poems always had a theme and were full of sympathy for the little people of the world. They bored me stiff but George had expertise and gave occasional intimations of power in reserve.

    I didn't really believe he would win. He seemed more professor than writer, with his watch chain and hairy tweed cap and slow, well-considered speech. The effect was less stuffy than dear, and that was George's problem; he was too dear, too kind. I never heard him say a hard word about anyone, and it visibly grieved him when the rest of us made sport of our schoolmates, especially those with hopes of being published in Troubadour. At our editorial meetings he argued for almost every submis- sion, even knowing that we could take only a fraction of them. It was maddening. You couldn't tell whether he actually liked a piece or just hated turning people down. This provoked the rest of us to an even greater ferocity of judgment than we were naturally inclined to.

    George's benevolence did not serve his writing well. For all its fluent sympathy, it was toothless. I had some magazine pictures of Ernest Hemingway tacked above my desk. In one he was baring his choppers at the camera in a way that left no doubt of his capacity for rending and tearing, which seemed plainly connected to his strength as a writer.

    Still, I knew better than to write George off. If he just once let a strong feeling get the better of his manners, he might land a good one. He could win.

    So could Bill White, my roommate. Bill had already written most of a novel, the first chapter of which we'd published in Troubadour. Two men and a woman are isolated in a hunting lodge during a blizzard. The narrator does not explain who they are, how they got there, or why they're together. But as you read on, you begin to get the picture: one of the men is a famous actor, the woman is his wife, and the second man is a surgeon. The men are old friends, but it emerges that the actor's wife is having an affair with the surgeon, who, it turns out, had once saved the actor's life with an impromptu tracheotomy during a safari.

    Have to take my hat off to you, said Montague. Tricky bit of tradecraft, given the circumstances. Storm blowing the damned tent down, and the beaters into the liquor. I shan't forget it.

    Not at all, not at all, said Dr. Coates. The merest intern could have done as well—probably better.

    I shan't forget it, Montague repeated. I'm forever in your debt, he added coldly.

    Aren't we all, said Ashley, pouring herself another scotch. She stared at the falling snow. Whatever would we do without the good doctor's services?

    You bitch, said Montague. You perfectly beautiful bitch.

    Though Bill hadn't let me read the rest of his novel—he was letting it settle before the final polish—I doubted that the hunting party's meticulously described rifles would stay locked in their cases for long.

    Bill's people weren't only genteel, they were gentile. So, I assumed, was Bill. He had bright green eyes and pale skin that flushed easily in heat or cold. His manner was courtly, amused, and for some reason he seemed especially amused by me, which I liked and also didn't like. He played varsity squash. It had never occurred to me that he might be Jewish until his father came to visit, the spring of the previous year. Mr. White was a widower and lived in Peru, where he owned a textile company. He had Bill invite me for dinner at the village inn, and seeing the two together produced a certain shock: both of them tall and fair and green-eyed, Mr. White an older version of his son in every respect save the Brooklyn in his voice and an almost eager warmth. He referred often to their family, and it soon became obvious that they were Jewish. I had roomed with Bill for two years by then and he'd never given me the slightest hint. Though I practiced some serious dissembling of my own, I'd never suspected it of Bill. I thought of him as honest, if aloof. Who was he, really? All that time together, and it turned out I didn't know him any better than he knew me.

    Mr. White gave us a good feed that night. He was a friendly, comfortable man, but I was still trying to catch up and I'm sure I looked at him with more than polite curiosity. If Bill noticed, he didn't let on and afterward gave no sign of feeling compromised by my knowledge that he was not who he seemed to be. That made me wonder if maybe he'd never meant to seem not Jewish—if my surprise was simply the effect of my own narrowness and anxiety.

    I didn't really believe that, of course. I believed that Bill had meant to deceive, and that his aplomb in the face of discovery was not innocence but a further artifice by which he masked his disquiet and, intentionally or not, forced me to probe my own response. Why not? That's how I would've carried it off. We never talked about any of this, naturally. For a while I worried that Bill might hold what I knew against me, but he didn't seem to. Maybe he was relieved to have someone know. That I could understand, very well.

    When the time came to choose roommates for our final year we didn't even bother to discuss it. Of course we would room together. Nobody got along better, even if real friendship eluded us.

    Bill was a contender. His characters were stilted but he had confidence and his stories were eventful and closely detailed. Most of the work in Troubadour suffered from generality. The more general, the more universal—that seemed to be the guiding principle. Bill's talent was particularity. How the snow creaked underfoot on a very cold clear day, or what the low white sun looked like through a tangle of black branches. The tackiness of a just-oiled rifle stock, the tearing sound of a bored woman brushing out her long hair in front of a fire. Everything in his work was particular and true except the people. That hurt the longer pieces, but in Bill's shortest, most implicit stories, and in his occasional poems, the exactitude and poise of his writing could carry you away. He had me worried.

    So did Jeff Purcell, known as Little Jeff because we had another Jeff Purcell in our class, his cousin—Big Jeff. In fact Little Jeff wasn't little and Big Jeff wasn't big, just bigger than Little Jeff, who resented Big Jeff, partly no doubt for inadvertently imposing this odious nickname on him. Little Jeff was a friend of mine, so like his other friends I called him Purcell.

    Purcell habitually kept his arms folded across his chest like a Civil War general in a daguerrotype. This bellicose pose suited him. Under his bristling crew cut he cultivated a sulfurous gift for invective and contempt. He was the Herod of our editorial sessions, poised to strike down every innocent who presumed to offer us a manuscript. He had exacting standards: moral, political, aesthetic. Purcell even flouted the timeless protocol of pretending to admire the work of his fellow editors. At one of our meetings he declared that a story of mine called “Suicide Note” read as if it'd been written after the narrator blew his brains out.

    Purcell came from a rich, social family, but you wouldn't have guessed it from his stories and poems; or maybe you would. His subject was the injustice of relations between high and low. He had written a ballad about a miner being sent deep into the earth to perish in a cave-in while the mine owner hand-feeds filet mignon to his hunting dogs, cooing to them in baby talk; and his last Troubadour piece was an epistolary story in which a general writes congratulatory letters to various grieving women after getting their husbands and sons slaughtered.

    You may rejoice for your fallen hero, knowing that his heart was perforated for our glorious cause, and you and your little ones can rest assured that his missing head, wherever it may be, is filled with the pride of sacrifice and radiant memories of the homeland for which he died so eagerly.

    This story was, I felt sure, inspired by a certain passage in A Farewell to Arms, but when it came up for consideration I bit my tongue and let it go. It wasn't bad. Cartoonish, of course, like all of Purcell's work, lurid and overwrought, to be sure, but venomously alive. Anyway, I myself was in debt to Hemingway—up to my ears. So was Bill. We even talked like Hemingway characters, though in travesty, as if to deny our discipleship: That is your bed, and it is a good bed, and you must make it and you must make it well. Or: Today is the day of meatloaf. The meatloaf is swell. It is swell but when it is gone the not-having meatloaf will be tragic and the meatloaf man will not come anymore.



    All of us owed someone, Hemingway or cummings or Kerouac—or all of them, and more. We wouldn't have admitted to it but the knowledge was surely there, because imitation was the only charge we never brought against the submissions we mocked so cruelly. There was no profit in it. Once crystallized, consciousness of influence would have doomed the collective and necessary fantasy that our work was purely our own. Even Purcell kept mum on that subject.

    He was a threat. His attack was broad, even crude, but you could feel his discomfort with the cushion he'd been born on, and his fear that it would turn him into one of the fatuous bloodsuckers he wrote about. If he humanized his targets, muted his voice, used a knife instead of a cudgel . . . Yet he didn't necessarily have to do any of that. In a field of stiffs, one of his cartoons could win for simply being alive.



    These, then, were the boys who stood between me and Robert Frost. Of course there were other self-confessed writers in my form, but I'd read their English papers and Troubadour submissions and seen nothing to worry me except their desire. So much desire! Why did so many of us want to be writers? It seemed unreasonable. But there were reasons.

    The atmosphere of our school crackled with sexual static. We had the occasional dance with Miss Cobb's Academy and a few other girls' schools, but these brief affairs only cranked up the charge; and though from day to day we saw the master's wives, Roberta Ramsey alone had the goods to enter our dreams. The absence of an actual girl to compete for meant that every other prize became feminized. For honors in sport, scholarship, music, and writing we cracked our heads together like mountain rams, and to make your mark as a writer was equal as proof of puissance to a brilliant season on the gridiron.

    This aspect of my ambition was obscure to me at the time. But there was another that I did recognize, though vaguely, and almost in spite of myself: the problem of class.

    Our school was proud of its hierarchy of character and deeds. It believed this system was superior to the one at work outside, and that it would wean us from habits of undue pride and deference. This was a good dream and we tried to live it out, even while knowing that we were actors in a play, and that outside the theater was a world we would have to reckon with when the curtain closed and the doors were flung open.

    Class was a fact. Not just the clothes a boy wore, but how he wore them. How he spent his summers. The sports he knew how to play. His way of turning cold at the mention of money, or at the spectacle of ambition too nakedly revealed. You felt it as a depth of ease in certain boys, their innate, affable assurance that they would not have to struggle for a place in the world, that it had already been reserved for them; a depth of ease or, in the case of Purcell and a few others, a sullen antipathy toward the padding that hemmed them in and muffled the edges of life. Yet even in the act of kicking against it they were defined by it, and protected by it, and to some extent unconscious of it. Purcell himself had a collection of first editions you'd almost have to own a mine to pay for.

    These things I understood instinctively. I never gave them voice, not even within the privacy of my thoughts, precisely because the school's self-conception was itself unspoken and thus inarguable. From my first days there I grasped and gratefully entered the dream but at the same time behaved as if I knew better, as in the following instance.

    The summer before entering the school I'd worked as a dishwasher in the kitchen crew at a YMCA camp outside Seattle. I was the youngest, and the other guys rode me pretty hard until Hartmut, the chef, saw what was going on and headed them off. He did this obliquely, never defending me directly but bearing down on the hardest kidders by giving them the shit work, the grease trap or the fryolator. Eventually some subliminal sense of cause and effect must have taken hold, because they eased up and then we all got along fine. After dinner, when the kitchen was polished to his satisfaction, Hartmut let us play Tom Lehrer albums on his old portable. Though he didn't get the jokes, he enjoyed our hilarity. Ah! You boys! You crazy crazy boys!

    Hartmut was from Austria. He'd been in the States for many years but his English was eccentric and often ludicrous. He wore an actual chef's hat and a white uniform that he changed every day. He cooked for those hot-dog-loving kids as if they were royalty—soufflés, pastries of airy lightness, quiches, many-layered tortes. He had great pride and didn't allow himself to notice when the little pagans made gagging noises over their eggs Benedict.

    Pink and thick and strong, Hartmut ran his kitchen like a ship, everything in its place, all orders to be obeyed on the instant. Though he appeared not to have a family, his love for children was obvious and utterly benevolent. He also loved music. When the record player wasn't blasting out waltzes and light opera, he whistled and sang. Some of his melodies were catchy and stuck in my head. And that's what landed me in trouble.

    I'd been at the school for five or six weeks, no more. I was struggling in my classes but every morning I felt a rush of joy to wake to the bells ringing in the clock tower and go to my win- dow and think, My God! I'm really here! In my pleasure I was whistling a tune of Hartmut's as I climbed the dormitory stairs after breakfast. Gershon, one of the school handymen, was a few steps ahead of me, carrying a laundry bag on his narrow shoulders. He had a plodding gait even on the level; here on the stairs he barely moved at all. I was afraid I'd bump into him if I tried to pass, so I kept pace a few steps behind, whistling all the while. Gershon gave off a stale smell that I'd whiffed before but never so strongly as in this tight passage.

    He slowed even more. I hung back obligingly and continued to whistle, my song resounding pleasantly in the stone stairwell. Then Gershon stopped and turned. He looked down at me with his long face turned gray, the laundry bag slumped on his shoulders like a lamb in a Bible illustration. I could hear him breathe, fast and shallow. He said something in what I thought was another language—I knew he was a foreigner of some kind. His too-white teeth clicked as he talked; I watched them with helpless fascination. Then he stopped. He appeared to be waiting for an answer.

    Name! he said. Vat your name!

    I told him.

    Go den! Go! Go!

    I nudged past him and went to my room, and by the time classes started I'd written it off as a misunderstanding: the old crab must've thought I'd been trying to hurry him. When a prefect called me out of Latin during second period and sent me to the dean's office, I assumed it was to receive a lecture about my abysmal grades. I was on scholarship, and had been nervously fearing a summons.

    I hadn't met Dean Makepeace yet but I knew who he was: he was Ernest Hemingway's friend. He closed the door behind me and looked me over without a word of greeting, then motioned me toward the hot seat. He let himself down in the chair behind the desk and began to leaf through a file. Mine, I supposed.

    He reeked of tobacco. Most of the masters did. It usually seemed a pleasant, paternal smell, though in my worried state I was nearly sickened by it. Before now I had seen Dean Makepeace only from a distance, at his table in the dining hall or tapping his way across campus, often conducted by an escort of older boys. With his height and his nose and his long black cane he'd appeared regal but benign. At this range he seemed neither. Dense dark hairs bristled from his ears and nostrils. Cigarette smoke had tinged his white moustache with yellow, and his suit jacket was smudged with ash. I had the impression that he wasn't actually reading the file, just occupying himself with it while he decided how to carve me up, or maybe to give me time to feel the full weight of my laziness and ingratitude and the complete disappointment of everyone with hopes for me.

    My chair had a high ladder-back that held me bolt upright. Shelves of dark, uniformly bound books rose up on either side, floor to high ceiling. Much as I loved books, there was something unfriendly about these; when I came across Meredith's poem “Lucifer in Starlight” later that year and read the line The army of unalterable law, I thought not of the stars but of those loom- ing tomes. Behind his desk the leaded window was open to the breeze. I heard a burst of laughter from one of the classrooms on the quad. It stopped suddenly.

    Dean Makepeace laid the file on the desk. Explain yourself, he said.

    Well, sir, I was pretty far behind when I got here.

    What?

    Not to make excuses. I know I need to work harder.

    Don't change the subject. Do you have any idea what that man has been through?

    Sir?

    You heard me. I am unable to understand how anyone could behave like this to a man in Gershon's position. Please explain.

    Dean Makepeace said all this calmly enough, but I wilted under his gaze. He wasn't angry. Anger, which I knew to be transient and generally at least part theater, I was used to and could easily bear. What I saw was dislike, which can't be shrugged off, which abides.

    I didn't mean to hurry Gershon, I said. I'm sorry if he got that impression.

    Oh, was that it? He wasn't moving fast enough, so you thought you'd give him a little marching music. Why don't you strike up the band for me?

    Sir?

    I want you to sing me what you sang to Gershon.

    Well, I was whistling a song. I don't know the words.

    Whistle away, then.

    My mouth was so dry I couldn't get a note out. I made a few false starts and gave up.

    Come on. Let's have it.

    I can't.

    You were doing okay this morning, weren't you? All right—hum the damned thing.

    I did. It sounded different, hummed, but I could tell Dean Makepeace recognized it and that this wasn't helping matters. I stopped and said, Sir, what is this song?

    Don't play dumb with me, boy.

    I'm not! I'm not playing dumb. What did I do wrong? The self-pity of this question brought me close to tears.

    You say you don't know what this song is?

    I shook my head furiously.

    Where did you learn it, then?

    A man I worked with. Hartmut. I picked it up from him. The tune.

    You must know other songs.

    Yes sir.

    Many other songs. Yet of all the songs you know, you just happened to whistle this one to Gershon. To Gershon, of all people!

    I wasn't whistling to him. I was just whistling. And Gershon was there.

    Was there some occasion for this outbreak of melody?

    Nothing special. I was feeling happy, that's all.

    Dean Makepeace leaned back in his chair. Happy. What were you happy about?

    Being here.

    He stroked his moustache. You'll want to be somewhat discreet about that, he said. Honestly, boy, what have you heard about Gershon?

    Nothing. I see him around, that's all.

    So you don't know anything about him?

    No sir.

    Have you ever heard of the “Horst Wessel Song”?

    You mean the Christmas carol?

    No, no. The “Horst Wessel Song” is a Nazi marching song, and a very ugly piece of work it is, too. That's what you were singing. Whistling.

    Then it all came home. As a child of the superior, disgusted, victorious nation I had the usual store of images to go with the words Nazi and Jew, and I was putting Gershon's face to them even before Dean Makepeace began to tell me what had befallen Gershon and his family, of whom none had survived but a daughter who was now in a French mental hospital. As he spoke I felt my eyes tearing up, partly from pity and also because the sadness of the story gave me cover to mourn my own plight, unjustly accused and humiliated by a great man of the school only a few weeks into my first term—a man I'd hoped to study with one day, who might even befriend me.

    It was too much. I started to weep—to blubber. My lack of control mortified me and I turned in my chair, hunched away from him. I tried to stop but couldn't. I felt a hand on my back. Dean Makepeace kept it there for a moment, then gave my shoulder a squeeze and left the room.

    By the time he came back I had exhausted myself. He offered me a glass of water and waited beside my chair. The water was cold. I drank most of it in a gulp, then finished it off and handed Dean Makepeace the glass. Though he didn't say anything, I understood that our meeting was over. I got up and told him I was sorry about Gershon, that I'd had no idea . . .

    I know. I know you didn't.

    But how did he know? How could he, in the face of such an inconceivable coincidence? Surely some doubt remained. I had the means to prove myself, but already knew I'd never make use of it.

    Dean Makepeace walked me to the door. He shook my hand and said, If you'll be good enough to clear things up with Gershon, we can put this to rest. The sooner the better. Tonight, say. After dinner.

    And get those grades up.



    Gershon lived in the basement of Holmes, the sixth-form dormitory, just off the boiler room. Even down there I could hear the boys upstairs, blustering and braying, full of the knowledge that at last the school was theirs. Gershon let me inside the door but no farther, and waited while I began to explain myself.

    The room was close and smelled of onions. Gershon had been sewing something, and the table was strewn with scraps of cloth. No books in sight. No pictures. Insulated pipes ran across the ceiling.

    As I talked he kept his face averted, his mouth set in a puckered line; he wasn't wearing his teeth. He would neither speak to me nor give any sign that he was listening. It was obvious that he regarded my visit as a galling evolution of the ugliness I'd already dealt him, and that he'd agreed to it only because he thought he had no choice. I tried to keep my explanation simple and slow. I couldn't be sure he understood me, though I had the feeling he did and that he didn't believe a word I was saying.

    The story sounded incredible even to me, and its grotesque, improbable accidents—that song, of all songs; Gershon, of all people—robbed my voice of conviction and, finally, of sense. I started to tell him about learning the song from Hartmut, then got lost in describing what a nice guy Hartmut was and how he must not have known what the song was about, or maybe he'd forgotten and just remembered the tune . . . Gershon stared into the corner, sucking his cheeks, enduring me, waiting for the lies to stop and for me to leave him in peace. And still I pushed on. I wanted him to believe me, for my own sake of course, but also for his, so he'd know there weren't any Nazis here.

    Again it occurred to me that I could prove my case: I could tell him that my own father was Jewish. This was true, though he himself never mentioned the fact, not even to me, his only child. My mother had told me only a year before, not long before she died, and I had no idea what it should mean to me. I had been raised Catholic; up to now my teachers had been nuns and the occasional priest, my social world entirely gentile. I knew nothing about Jews except some of their recent history. If I'd learned that my father was descended from Southern Baptists, would that make me a Southern Baptist? No. I would still be the boy I'd been the day before I came into this knowledge. The same with his Jewish ancestry. It was a fact but not a defining fact, neither to be asserted nor denied.

    But it had come to a kind of question twice that day, and both times I'd chosen to deny it. Telling Dean Makepeace or Gershon about my father might not have cleared me; Jews can be savage Jew-baiters, as everyone knows, but I didn't know. I thought I held a trump card, and my refusal to play it amounted to a deception.

    The scene with Gershon could be spun into a certain kind of story. The new boy comes to clear things up with the cranky handyman he's unwittingly affronted and ends up confiding his own Jewish blood, whereupon the handyman melts and a friendship ensues. In time the man who has lost his sons becomes a true father to the boy, enfolding him in the tradition his own false father has denied him. And what irony: the ambitious, upward-striving boy must descend to a basement room to learn the wisdom not being taught in the snob factory upstairs.

    Fat chance. I wanted out of there, and I was confiding nothing. I'd let Gershon think the worst of me before I would claim any connection to him, or implicate myself in the fate that had beached him in this room. Why would I want to talk my way into his unlucky tribe? All this came over me as a gathering sense of suffocation. I stammered out a final apology and left, taking the stairs at a run as soon as the door clicked shut behind me.

    It had been different that morning with Dean Makepeace, calmer and clearer. I simply decided that it would be better not to use the Jewish defense. There was no obvious reason for being cagey. In my short time at the school I'd seen no bullying or manifest contempt of that kind, and never did. Yet it seemed to me that the Jewish boys, even the popular ones, even the athletes, had a subtly charged field around them, an air of apartness. And somehow the feeling must have settled in me that this apartness did not emanate from the boys themselves, from any quality or wish of their own, but from the school—as if some guardian spirit, indifferent to their personal worth, had risen from the fields and walkways and weathered stone to breathe that apartness upon them.

    This was no more than a tremor of apprehension, and though I acted on it I did not allow it to occupy my thoughts. But it never really deserted me. It became a shadow on my faith in the school. Much as I wanted to believe in its egalitarian vision of itself, I never dared put it to the test.

    Other boys must have felt the same intimations. Maybe that was why so many of them wanted to become writers. Maybe it seemed to them, as it did to me, that to be a writer was to escape the problems of blood and class. Writers formed a society of their own outside the common hierarchy. This gave them a power not conferred by privilege—the power to create images of the system they stood apart from, and thereby to judge it.

    I hadn't heard anyone speak of a writer as having power. Truth, yes. Wit, understanding, even courage—but never power. We had talked in class about Pasternak and his troubles, and the long history of Russian writers being imprisoned and killed for not writing as the Party wished. Augustus Caesar had sent our Latin master's beloved Ovid into exile. And when the progressive Mr. Ramsey—himself a gift from England—wanted to show us what mushrooms we all were, he recalled our nation's inhospitality to Lolita, which he considered the century's greatest novel since Ulysses—another victim of churlish American censors!

    Yet the effect of all these stories was to make me feel not Caesar's power, but his fear of Ovid. And why would Caesar fear Ovid, except for knowing that neither his divinity nor all his legions could protect him from a good line of poetry.

    Copyright© 2003 by Tobias Wolff
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    Reading Group Guide

    1. What is the effect of the first-person narrative style Wolff has chosen for this novel? What kinds of information-or perspectives-does the reader have access to? On the other hand, what kinds of information does first-person narration deny the reader? What terms might describe the narrator's voice? Why is this narrative style so appropriate for this story?

    2. About his desire to win the competition that would give him an audience with Robert Frost, the narrator says, "My aspirations were mystical. I wanted to receive the laying on of hands that had written living stories and poems, hands that had touched the hands of other writers. I wanted to be anointed" [p. 7]. Is his aspiration admirable? What does the boy not understand about how one becomes a writer? How seriously does he work at acquiring the skills of his craft?

    3. In social interactions between boys at the school, much is left unsaid. Why is this? Consider the relationship between the narrator and his roommate Bill White [pp. 11-13, 139-40]. What problems of interpretation arise when so little talking is done? Why is this relationship so problematic?

    4. During his visit to Gershon to explain his mistake in whistling the Nazi marching tune, the boy decides not to confide the fact that his father is Jewish. He thinks, "I'd let Gershon think the worst of me before I would claim any connection to him, or implicate myself in the fate that had beached him in this room. Why would I want to talk my way into his unlucky tribe?" [p. 23]. What does this episod-including his meeting with the headmaster-tell us about the narrator?

    5. Very early on, the narrator tells us that the school adhered informally "to a system of honors that valued nothing you hadn't done for yourself." He goes on to say "Dean Makepeace had been a friend of Hemingway's during World War I and was said to have served as the model for Jake's fishing buddy Bill in The Sun Also Rises" [p. 4]. What seems here like casual exposition is seen later to be foreshadowing, linking the acts of deception committed by the boy and the headmaster. What other examples do you find of Wolff's careful attention to the structure of the novel?

    6. Having related his experience of Frost's poem "After Apple-Picking," the headmaster tells the boys, "Make no mistake . . . a true piece of writing is a dangerous thing. It can change your life" [p. 47]. Why is writing dangerous in this novel, and for whom?

    7. Reading The Fountainhead, the narrator says, "I was discovering the force of my will. . . . I understood that nothing stood between me and my greatest desires-nothing between me and greatness itself-but the temptation to doubt my will and bow to counsels of moderation, expedience, and conventional morality, and shrink into the long, slow death of respectability" [p. 68]. Why does Ayn Rand's writing have such a powerful effect on him, and why does his initial excitement fade upon actually meeting the author? The boy also learns an important lesson when he rereads the stories of Hemingway, whom Ayn Rand has attacked as a creator of "weak, defeated people" [p. 84]. What does he realize, and how is this lesson important for what happens later [pp. 95-99]?

    8. As he looks toward graduation, the narrator says it was a "dream that produced the school, not merely English-envy but the yearning for a chivalric world apart from the din of scandal and cheap dispute, the hustles and schemes of modernity itself. As I recognized this dream I also sensed its futility, but so what? . . . With still a month to graduation I was already damp with nostalgia" [p. 134]. If literature plays a critical role in both the school's chivalric ideal and in the nostalgia the narrator feels, is literature an alternate world in which the narrator would prefer to exist? What is ironic about the above passage?

    9. Old School is in large part an examination of the process by which a boy tries to become the person he most desires to be. What does Wolff seem to suggest about the process of self-formation and the fragility of the ego?

    10. What is most impressive about the story "Summer Dance" and why does it appeal to the boy so powerfully? Why in typing it does he feel "an intuition of gracious release" [p. 126]? Is this his moment of learning how to "begin to write truly" [p. 126]? Why is it important that he never considers his submission of the story-with slight changes-a deliberate act of plagiarism?

    11. The competitors for literary awards are all indebted to other writers: "All of us owed someone, Hemingway or Cummings or Kerouac-or all of them, and more. We wouldn't have admitted to it but the knowledge was surely there, because imitation was the only charge we never brought against the submissions we mocked so cruelly" [p. 14]. Can it sometimes be difficult to draw a line between healthy imitation and plagiarism? Is the school's harsh response to the boy's use of another writer's story unfair?

    12. Speaking of Old School in an interview, Tobias Wolff said, "For this novel to work, the reader has to believe in these boys becoming so madly passionate and competitive about this writing business. That can only happen when there is a complete failure of perspective, which requires a very enclosed world, like an army or a priesthood. Great mistakes can be made because the view becomes so narrow." How does Wolff create this narrowed perspective? How do his choices of what to describe and what not to describe shape the reader's perspective on the novel's events? To what degree does the reader's perspective merge with the narrator's?

    13. Tobias Wolff gives his readers an intimate view of his main character's faults. How does your response to the boy change as the novel proceeds? What is the effect, particularly, of the last few chapters?

    14. In his review of the novel, Chris Bohjalian noted, "Virtually every chapter in the novel could stand alone as a short story" (The Boston Globe, 4 Jan 2004, C7). Discuss Wolff's attention to the dramatic tension and the formal structure of each chapter, and decide whether you agree with Bohjalian's assessment that the novel is informed by Wolff's experience as a master of the short story.

    15. The novel's epigraph, from a poem by Mark Strand, end with "the truth lies like nothing else and I love the truth." How does the epigraph relate to the narrator's confusion and his conflicts with himself?

    16. How does the narrator's meeting with Susan Friedman emphasize the difference between their characters and their approaches to the meaning and purposes of writing? Who is the more mature person? Each of them embodies certain ideals. What are they and what is their essential difference?

    17. The book's final chapter departs from the narrator's story and moves to Mr. Ramsey's story about Dean Makepeace, who had allowed himself to be thought of as a friend of Hemingway. How does this story work as a coda to the novel? What is the effect of the shift in perspective?

    18. In what ways is humor expressed in this novel, and what kind of humor is it? What situations and descriptions are comical?

    19. If you have read Tobias Wolff's memoir This Boy's Life, how would you compare it to Old School? What is the difference between memoir and fiction, and how does this question relate to the truth/lies dilemma presented by Old School?

    Read More Show Less

    Customer Reviews

    Average Rating 4.5
    ( 57 )
    Rating Distribution

    5 Star

    (39)

    4 Star

    (6)

    3 Star

    (8)

    2 Star

    (2)

    1 Star

    (2)

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    See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 57 Customer Reviews
    • Anonymous

      Posted September 28, 2008

      Literary Art

      Old School is the type of book you need to read slowly and absorb carefully. It is very intricate and passages oftentimes require a second read-through. It is centered around an unnamed sixth-former at a prep school that is frequented thrice yearly by important writers. However a conflict arises when the protagonist is struggling to write a piece for one of the contests. Now while the first quarter or so of the book moves quite slowly, once all the introducing is done the story speeds up and really gets interesting. However if there is one gripe I have with Old School, it is that the story completely shifts focus away from the main character in the final act, so the protagonist doesn't get a proper resolution. The external resolution explored is very strong however, so the two act well to counter-balance each other. While the pace may be a detractor, luckily it does not last the entire book as I often found myself lost in a reading session with no sense of the book dragging on. The author, Tobias Wolff, is most definitely a wordsmith and he flexes those muscles well in Old School weaving complex metaphors with the greatest of ease while never interrupting the smooth flow. Wolff also tackles some very thought-provoking subjects in the story, the largest being identity, and a boy¿s quest to figure out what role he plays in the big picture of things. Overall, Old School is a very refreshing read in the field of young adult literature. The author makes some interesting choices, such as choosing not to name the protagonist which some could argue makes him more distant from the reader. Wolff Also chose not to include quotation marks when dialogue is spoken which may come off as a slight inconvenience to the reader as I sometimes found myself retreating back to the beginning of a conversation to see who was speaking at the moment. However, all complaints aside, Old School is a very solid and enjoyable read with a very important message.

      2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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    • Posted September 26, 2009

      more from this reviewer

      Tobias Wolff is a tremendous writer

      Okay, I am a little late to the Tobias Wolff fan party. I knew he was lauded and had many, many loyal fans, but "Old School" is the first of his books I actually bought and read. I cannot believe I've missed this amazing writer's work all this time. Wolff is a master. He seems to be effortless in his ability to swiftly create an entire mood and a complete experience in just a sentence or two. I read the first lines of this book and was HOOKED. The narrator introduces us to himself and his school by describing how the boys there regarded the politics of the day, 1960: "Nixon was a straight arrow and a scold. If he'd been one of us, we would have glued his shoes to the floor. Kennedy, though - here was a warrior, an ironist, terse and unhysterical. He had his clothes under control. His wife was a fox. And he read and wrote books, one of which, 'Why England Slept,' was required reading in my honors history seminar. We recognized Kennedy; we could still see in him the boy who would have been a favorite here, roguish and literate, with that almost formal insouciance that both enacted and discounted the fact of his class."

      When the skill-level of an author is this high, I don't care what the plot is. But in case you do - it is about a group of young boys at a prep school, written in the first person narration by the boy who thinks his lack of pedigree means he is an imposter, wanting to belong but feeling he doesn't. This is certainly not a new theme: think "Brideshead Revisited," or "Atonement," and this boy self-destructs too. But "Old School" rivals "A Separate Peace" and "A Prayer for Owen Meany" in this genre because the writing is simply outstanding.

      1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted February 16, 2006

      Slow and boring read

      I lost interest when I got to the last two paragraphs and stopped paying attention. I should probably read it again in a few years so I can actually understand it and get something out of it. In the book, Ayn Rand is so self-centered and her opinions made me mad. She is like the characters in 'The Fountainhead', Dominique and Roark the way the narrator describes them. How did Bill know that the narrator was a lapsed Catholic? Just because he stopped going to that Catholic place with other boys? I couldn't believe what Bill accused the narrator of doing! What eventually happens to the narrator is heartbreaking. I was disappointed by the ending it was boring and didn't make any sense. I really liked what Robert Frost said about science though.

      1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      TO ALL!

      One of your memners is locked oit! It has been requested by him to ask you to move to the next result. Thanks!

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      Lil... * pokes head n door smiling curly hair bouncing* hello?!

      Lil... * pokes head n door smiling curly hair bouncing* hello?!

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      lil... agh.. its dunb, one post per book per account online with

      lil... agh.. its dunb, one post per book per account online with no  deletes.. so yeah.. 

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      lil... well.. what it is is that you can only post once per acco

      lil... well.. what it is is that you can only post once per account per book... so its making bogus accounts over n over againwith typing lik' wudeiweh' so that they dont really make a difference. at this moment my account name is iueiefugi lol

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      lil...man rping on a computer is sooooo slowwwwwww...

      lil...man rping on a computer is sooooo slowwwwwww...

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      lil...O_O   yes i see that... i would like no nightmares though.

      lil...O_O   yes i see that... i would like no nightmares though... thak you very much...

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      lil hey bree... campfire stories? cuz i want smores.. :)

      lil hey bree... campfire stories? cuz i want smores.. :)

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      lil.. its a lot  of work...i really do not suggest it... its lik

      lil.. its a lot  of work...i really do not suggest it... its like...hard...i got my nook taken away soi stole the 'broken' computer from the boookshelf... :D lol

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      Childlike giggles echo across the room and shadows rush around t

      Childlike giggles echo across the room and shadows rush around the corner of the room then it stop,,,Then"AHHHHHHH!" *cmes out from ahadows...* hai.. its just me lil... :)

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted January 28, 2014

      Lil..... hey ummm. apparently someone faked me breaking up with

      Lil..... hey ummm. apparently someone faked me breaking up with luke so if any of you see him, can you tell him  that that was not me? I never tried to break up with him.. thats not true.  thanks.. :)

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted January 28, 2014

      hehehehehheehe.... :D

      hehehehehheehe.... :D

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted January 28, 2014

      Lil.... Hey guys... I wrote yall a letter on the previous res...

      Lil.... Hey guys... I wrote yall a letter on the previous res...  xD see you all another day! :)

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      Andrew

      Gtgtb

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      Ryan

      Dosent say anything just watches th two

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      Jonathon

      "Yeauup hey ryan wasup?"

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted February 14, 2014

      Bo

      Whos bo

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    • Anonymous

      Posted January 29, 2014

      Nightt.

      0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

      Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
    See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 57 Customer Reviews

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