Diary of a Discontent Read Online Free PDF Page B

appropriate tone—the tone of a wise and
worldly professor.
    “We’re studying Africa,” she said, sliding
the book closer to me. “I have to write an essay on the
geopolitical dilemmas of life in eastern Botswana.”
    “Now, my dear…”
    “My name is Ashley.”
    “Ashley, the important thing to remember here
is that there aren’t any geopolitical
dilemmas in a country like Botswana, much less the eastern portion
of it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Who’s heard of Botswana, anyway? Who even
knows where it is?”
    “Well, it’s in Africa.”
    “Of course it’s in Africa…that’s exactly my
point.”
    “I’m not sure I understand you.”
    I nodded knowingly. “Yes, of course not. I
don’t expect a mere undergraduate to immediately appreciate the
wisdom of a man with a Ph.D. Did you know that I graduated at the
top of my class? Yes, my thesis became a best seller…very rare,
very rare indeed.”
    We spoke for a little while longer about
Africa and history and some of the other professors at the
university. The poor girl wasn’t very bright, but she had a good
sense of humor and seemed to be in awe of my mental faculties.
“Thank you, Professor Willows,” she said as she was leaving. Her
words sent a tingling sensation down my neck.
    ~
    The girl comes to life every night, glowing
in the lamplight of the subterrarium. I see her in snippets, moving
from one place to another, bending and turning but never coming to
rest in the frame of the window. I imagine how she looks as a
whole, but her face eludes me.
    I stand behind the alley gate, in the shadow
of the adjacent building, and stare into her world. Am I the
voyeur, or is it Mr. Willows?
    ~
    I’ve just been reading the morning paper,
marveling over the incisive words of Peter Willows. Yes, my second
essay has been printed. My hands are trembling. I have an
indescribable energy bubbling inside me, seeking release. I want to
write all my frenzied thoughts down on paper, but I feel like I
first need to run through the streets. It is a curious thing for an
author to see his words in print: they assume a certain gravity
that is absent from all the first drafts, the smeared ink and
crumpled notebook paper. Printed in neatly aligned columns in the
city’s largest newspaper, they hardly seem like my own words at
all! Did I really summon such wisdom? Has my prose always been so
evocative? And to think of all the citizens who will wake up today
to my words…
    I had better prepare myself for the onslaught
of publicity. Surely this second essay will create a stir. I’ll
need an agent, a lawyer, perhaps.
    I want to keep writing, but my hands can
barely keep hold of my pen. I must go out.
    ~
    I wandered around the university library for
two hours before I found my pupil. She was sitting at a creaky
carrel in the basement, hiding behind a stack of books. I strutted
by her once, twice, and then a third time, pretending not to notice
her. I was looking for a book on the nearby shelves.
    “Professor Willows?” she nearly exclaimed. At
last, the words I had been waiting for.
    “Ah, Ashley. What a nice surprise to see you
here. Hard at work, I see?”
    She sighed and made a face at the piles of
books surrounding her. “History is killing me,” she said with a
groan.
    “Yes, it tends to do that to people,” I said,
smiling with practiced sophistication. “Can I be of any help?”
    She looked startled by my question. “You
wouldn’t mind…?”
    “Of course not. I am a professor, after all.
It’s my job.”
    “Well…” She shuffled the papers in front of
her and clicked her pen nervously.
    “What is it this time?” I asked. “More
African history?”
    “Not exactly. Do you know much about
philosophy?”
    “I’m practically a philosopher myself,
dear.”
    “I’m sorry, that was a stupid question.”
    “No, not at all. I can’t expect you to know
all of my fields of expertise. There are so many, after all…”
    I borrowed a chair from a nearby