postmodernists who saw ogres of colonialism and capitalism everywhere, and resurgent new traditionalists who promoted the “Western canon” and empiricism as the best grounding for a good education.
Tawpie had ridden the coattails of the former group, now out of vogue and in decline; Una and Dion were still leaders of the latter. Nick had traveled a middle road, discerning some value even in the most flamboyant absurdities of postmodernist systems … until the betrayal.
Having scaled the icy peak of cynicism, he now looked down with scorn at the pitiful hamlets of theory.
You must have facts, Nick, yes, but also the wisdom to know when they’re lying!
as Bluemantle used to shout at him.
Who had brought the initial charge of scholarly misconduct? Nick suspected Tawpie, who had always coveted the top job in the department and had feared that Una would get it one day, as she so richly deserved. She clearly had the superior mind and the deeper soul, along with a more impressive academic record.
The plagiarism allegation, lacking a clearly smoking gun, soon degenerated into a suggestion that Nick
should have
read the earlier critical work; but the damage to his reputation was done. Nick firmly believed that Tawpie had sacrificed him on the altar of his ambition, to prove his power to everyone, especially his power over Una, to demonstrate definitively his skill at conspiracy. By the time the compromise was made for him to resign before being fired, Nick was lower in spirits than he’d ever been. He was fed up with departmental politics, fed up with Frederick Tawpie, fed up with life in general. Vengeful, bitter, directionless, dangerously depressed. Other people go through worse tribulations—much worse—and continue soldiering on. Nick comprehended that fact.
But if you couldn’t be self-indulgent with your own misfortune, then it truly was an unjust world. This disgrace was his very own bête noire, and, like a tragic lover in grand opera, he embraced it without reserve. He’d be damned if anyone was going to deprive him of his full measure of self-pity.
Soon thereafter, Tawpie, as a reward for his ignoble career of guile and ass kissing, made the leap to assistant department head, and recently, to head of the department on the death of the beloved Whitman scholar who’d been at the helm for nearly fifty years. Tawpie delivered a fulsome graveside eulogy that had all the sycophants sniffling, but not Nick, Una, Dion, and afew other departmental subversives, who had long since dubbed Tawpie “the Usurper.”
Una saved Nick from his downward trajectory through one of her benevolent tricks. She’d assured a relative of hers that Nick was an expert in genealogy. Reluctantly, Nick went along with the charade, and soon found himself researching and writing a family history, which, to his surprise, won several awards.
More to his surprise, he found in genealogy an outlet for his need to set the record straight—even if it wasn’t his own. Having spent his adult life thus far as a scholar, he made the transition without a stumble. In a matter of a couple of years, he attained certification as a professional in the field. He was a CG, a Certified Genealogist. Now he was making a new name for himself, garnering minor acclaim through his frequent articles, but making little money. The business side was not his forte, and he gave it only fitful attention.
“What’s that book you’re using,” he asked Hawty, with some concern. “Did I buy that? Looks expensive.”
“Don’t worry, it’s my personal copy,” she assured him, her eyes on the screen. “I’ve lent it to the firm. It’s a guide to on-line genealogy, already outdated. I bet you’ve never heard of Rootsfinity.com, the MyAncestors BBS, GenShamus.org—”
“You’re right, I haven’t. Are you speaking in some kind of code, a peculiar New Orleans patois?” he said, ribbing her.
“Joke about it if you want,” Hawty replied, “but I’m
Tawpie had ridden the coattails of the former group, now out of vogue and in decline; Una and Dion were still leaders of the latter. Nick had traveled a middle road, discerning some value even in the most flamboyant absurdities of postmodernist systems … until the betrayal.
Having scaled the icy peak of cynicism, he now looked down with scorn at the pitiful hamlets of theory.
You must have facts, Nick, yes, but also the wisdom to know when they’re lying!
as Bluemantle used to shout at him.
Who had brought the initial charge of scholarly misconduct? Nick suspected Tawpie, who had always coveted the top job in the department and had feared that Una would get it one day, as she so richly deserved. She clearly had the superior mind and the deeper soul, along with a more impressive academic record.
The plagiarism allegation, lacking a clearly smoking gun, soon degenerated into a suggestion that Nick
should have
read the earlier critical work; but the damage to his reputation was done. Nick firmly believed that Tawpie had sacrificed him on the altar of his ambition, to prove his power to everyone, especially his power over Una, to demonstrate definitively his skill at conspiracy. By the time the compromise was made for him to resign before being fired, Nick was lower in spirits than he’d ever been. He was fed up with departmental politics, fed up with Frederick Tawpie, fed up with life in general. Vengeful, bitter, directionless, dangerously depressed. Other people go through worse tribulations—much worse—and continue soldiering on. Nick comprehended that fact.
But if you couldn’t be self-indulgent with your own misfortune, then it truly was an unjust world. This disgrace was his very own bête noire, and, like a tragic lover in grand opera, he embraced it without reserve. He’d be damned if anyone was going to deprive him of his full measure of self-pity.
Soon thereafter, Tawpie, as a reward for his ignoble career of guile and ass kissing, made the leap to assistant department head, and recently, to head of the department on the death of the beloved Whitman scholar who’d been at the helm for nearly fifty years. Tawpie delivered a fulsome graveside eulogy that had all the sycophants sniffling, but not Nick, Una, Dion, and afew other departmental subversives, who had long since dubbed Tawpie “the Usurper.”
Una saved Nick from his downward trajectory through one of her benevolent tricks. She’d assured a relative of hers that Nick was an expert in genealogy. Reluctantly, Nick went along with the charade, and soon found himself researching and writing a family history, which, to his surprise, won several awards.
More to his surprise, he found in genealogy an outlet for his need to set the record straight—even if it wasn’t his own. Having spent his adult life thus far as a scholar, he made the transition without a stumble. In a matter of a couple of years, he attained certification as a professional in the field. He was a CG, a Certified Genealogist. Now he was making a new name for himself, garnering minor acclaim through his frequent articles, but making little money. The business side was not his forte, and he gave it only fitful attention.
“What’s that book you’re using,” he asked Hawty, with some concern. “Did I buy that? Looks expensive.”
“Don’t worry, it’s my personal copy,” she assured him, her eyes on the screen. “I’ve lent it to the firm. It’s a guide to on-line genealogy, already outdated. I bet you’ve never heard of Rootsfinity.com, the MyAncestors BBS, GenShamus.org—”
“You’re right, I haven’t. Are you speaking in some kind of code, a peculiar New Orleans patois?” he said, ribbing her.
“Joke about it if you want,” Hawty replied, “but I’m
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