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The Consultation
James Stevens, literature major, checked the thin, stiff white card in his hand. It read: Professor of
Literature & Cultural Studies Rance Politon, rm. 74-a. His appointment was for two o'clock. It could be
very significant; then again, it might be another routine dismissal, or worse, a dead-end.
In Professor Politon's office, James seated himself and nodded in a friendly way to the man who had
appointed himself to the task. Such interviews were a necessary part of the job and he performed them
with a grace appropriate to his age and state in life. After preliminary chitchat–both sounding each
other out and finding, as yet, no revealed idea which could interfere with the university's need.
The mood shifted when Professor Politon inquired:
"Stevens, do you think the class understands my approach to the text?"
This question was, to James's ears, paramount to the matters he though the professor considered important,
so he responded quickly, decisively, in a tone suggesting casual interest.
"I don't see anything in it out of the ordinary, that they wouldn't–"
"Well, the fact is, Stevens, the book is just crap. I hate it."
"Ah."
James felt terribly embarrassed, as if the professor had confessed to him, for the first time in his life
to anyone, that he utterly and absolutely detested his father. The professor continued:
"I only pretend to take it seriously, ironically, to show how much I hate it, and my-self."
James started to laugh, since he always interpreted comments like the professor's humorously. As he began to
open his lips and expel the first guffaw, he looked at the middle-aged man sitting across from him. The professor
was looking up at the books lin-ing the shelf above the desk and then back at James, as if his student's presence
were wholly irrelevant to the matter. James felt it necessary that he take some sort of initiative–it was obvious
that Professor Politon found it unnecessary to maintain the conversation, but the need remained.
"The text in most respects speaks for itself, but it seems indistinct. Certain matters are neglected
altogether. I believe this is intentional, however..."
The professor began speaking as soon as James paused, but to James, it didn't feel like a conversation.
"I think I lecture on this kind of book simply to show my contempt for society, the students at this
university, and myself. In some sense, self-hatred is the only way to really prevent oneself from attaining
that state of mind where taking meaningful action is possible. You know what action really means, don't you?"
"What?"
"The will. The psychologists and therapists, educators, who talk about developing a positive self-image
and all that, a positive world-view, are really talking about cultivating the capacity for will, the ability to
effect change in the world around you–which inevitably means altering other things, animals, people, whether
you intend to or not. Hurting them, since that is the definition of hurt, an alteration of something in one's
own interest without their permission. A positive self-image just means the ability to not care about the
consequences of one's actions. I learned this from literature," Professor concluded matter-of-factly.
"So meaning equals pain," said James. "Harsh, I suppose, is the word for such a world-view.
Life as a grim struggle."
The professor smiled tightly at James.
"So I guess this means you'll have to kill yourself," said James, and started moving the sharp tip of
his pencil back and forth across the tips of his fingers. Absurdly, James concluded his proposal with an affable
smile.
"No, no. I still have a biological function to perform. Suicide is an easy, but invalid, way out. The
solution is to act out one's role in society in a purely biological mannerwith a minimum expenditure of personal
initiative and will. That's why I write reviews of detective novels," the professor said suddenly.
"The detective novel is the ultimate example of engaging in a literary form with a minimum of fuss,
without unnecessary aestheticization, characterization or anything else. After all, when one does something
differently in literature, one ends up only subtly hurting people who can't understand it. In some sense,
art itself is an act of will, designed to take the world and irredeemably alter it in one's own image. All
other kinds of literature are ultimately fascistic, because they either attempt to alter the world for the
better, or promote the primacy of the artist–both leading to an unavoidable invasion into the consciousness of
the reader. The detective novel is an antidote to that kind of literature. It's simply a form which is predictable,
identifiable and threatens no onejust what I strive for in my own life, or to be precise, since that is exactly
the sort of thing I'm arguing against, unstriving for."
"Oh. I've never really read detective novels that much."
The professor nodded and extended a long, thin finger towards a dusty cup on the desktop. He ran his finger
around the contents, a collection of dry, blue ballpoint pens, every one of which was capless.
James rose from his seat. In an obscure way, the consultation was a failure, perhaps not in the long run,
but in the short-term, it certainly was, and the only thing to be done was to dismiss himself.
"Well, see you on Monday," James said in a friendly voice.
As James passed through the office doorway, Professor Politon called after him:
"And don't ask me about sex. I have no answers for that."
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