The Happiest Half-Hours of Life
Yesterday I should have gone back to school, had I been a hundred
years younger. My most frequent dream nowadays--or nowanights I
suppose I should say--is that I am back at school, and trying to
construe difficult passages from Greek authors unknown to me.
That they are unknown is my own fault, as will be pointed out to
me sternly in a moment. Meanwhile I stand up and gaze blankly at
the text, wondering how it is that I can have forgotten to
prepare it. "Er--him the--er--him the--the er many-wiled
Odysseus--h'r'm--then, him addressing, the many-wiled Odysseus--
er--addressed. Er--er --the er--" And then, sweet relief, I wake
up. That is one of my dreams; and another is that I am trying to
collect my books for the next school and that an algebra, or
whatever you like, is missing. The bell has rung, as it seems
hours ago, I am searching my shelves desperately, I am diving
under my table, behind the chair ... I shall be late, I shall be
late, late, late ...
No doubt I had these bad moments in real life a hundred years
ago. Indeed I must have had them pretty often that they should
come back to me so regularly now. But it is curious that I should
never dream that I am going back to school, for the misery of
going back must have left a deeper mark on my mind than all the
little accidental troubles of life when there.
Pages:
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149