Tuesday, May 29, 2007
I remember at times feeling like an imposter on the Stanford University campus. Like in the freshman physics survey course -- for engineers, not poets -- that I had the brilliant idea to sign up for. There was a kid who sat next to me who never once opened a notebook or removed a pencil from his plastic pocket-liner the entire semester. One day I saw him frown and shake his head as I furiously scribbled down the formula the Nobel prize-winning lecturer had just chalked on the board.
"Dickweed," I muttered under my breath. Until the lecturer glanced back at the board, said, "Wait a minute, that's not right," and corrected one of the Greek letters holding down a denominator. The kid's face brightened up and he nodded furiously. And I realized that I'd better start working on my iambic pentameter.