He died July 14th of this year.
I had him for a freshman lit course and he railed against the narrow exposure to the world of the freshman. I felt only a little smug because I'd heard of the blues musicians he mentioned, but that was because of my future ex-husband who was eclectic in his music tastes. His mention of playwrights, books, artists made me realise, he was correct. I didn't know much about the world beyond Reading, MA and what TV had to offer.
The next time I had him for the course, British Literature, I was more informed. I'd spent two years in Germany with my future-ex which opened my brain to not a world, but worlds.
This time we used the Norton Anthology, not the Introduction to Literature that he had written with Sylvan Barnet, Morton Berman.and William Cain. Since that course, I've never read anything the same way because he taught how to dive into and through the written word. In many ways those lessons helped me with my writing.
His lessons were fascinating. His assignments for papers stretched and intrigued.
However, his testing sucked. I will always remember the second semester final which was on Vol. II of the Norton Anthology, a book measured in inches, not pages.
It had only been assigned the month before. The rest of the year had covered Vol. 1. A friend and I hibernated and went over the book page by page memorizing every footnote, every obscure reference. We aced the test that in no way reflected the beauty of the literature.
I ran into Burto years later in Harvard Square where I was working as a legal secretary. I had debated going to law school to increase my earning capacity for my daughter and myself. I was now a single mom. The decision was absolutely no--don't waste three years of study and my life on something that I didn't care all that much about. Work is not only about money.
He loped by the window and I ran out to catch up with him.
It was no wonder he lived in the Square with its street musicians, bookstores, coffee houses, concerts and ethnic restaurants in comparison to Lowell, a working class community on its way down (although it would later rise a bit). His obit showed him a collector of art.
At university many of the women had a crush on him, but his obit mentioned his partner Barnet. I was glad he had a long relationship that lasted 61 years, a miracle today. It wasn't the only thing I learned about him. He had survived the sinking of his ship in Guadalcanal. He was a gardener. I can imagine the two of them collaborating on their many books and being excited about a new art discovery.
He remembered me in Harvard Square in 1972 a mere five years after I graduated, although I'm not sure he would have remembered me more recently considering the thousands of students that passed through his classroom. I was certainly not his most brilliant student and I didn't (couldn't) go onto grad school for at least 20 more years which he had recommended at the time. Having a husband that fought me about my undergraduate studies every day until I received my diploma, he had no idea of the fight I had to get my education. He had no idea, either, how he shaped my intellectual life.
I suspect he would have been pleased.
Sylvan Barnet, Morton Berman, William E. Cain
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