Chapter 43By the end of the week, I aced two pop quizzes in Introduction to Theory of Literature. When it came to post-structuralism and Marxism and deconstruction, nobody out of the dozen students in the room could hold a candle to me. My nose buried in a book every night was paying off. Professor Archibald Nelson, who had a walking dead resemblance to Carl Marx himself and an overgrown white beard, receding hairline and thick German accent, was impressed with me.
He stood over me in his corduroy tweed pants suit and blazer, tweaking his barbell moustache. It was uncanny, and freaky.
My mother would be in literature heaven if she had the opportunity to grace Professor Nelson’s scholarly presence. I didn’t want to think of them discussing nineteenth century literature over coffee. I roll
