PH. D.
471
age is the problem of another. It was good to be a midwestern liberal
like Crane. Better it was, much better than to have gone to C.C.N.Y.,
to graduate into the I.R.T. He laughed, for he was Auerbach, mar–
ginal man of the initial. He rose and poured himself a cup of coffee.
Balancing it next to the cake plate on the arm of the chair, he decided
it was time to begin. The period of integration was at hand, and he
removed all
his
folders from the file.
It was fully an hour before the slow ache diffused tln•)ugh his
eyes again. The
film
unwound, it turned back upon itself. In lt>tters,
mighty capitalized letters, it was spelled out for him-n-IE
GREAT
FRENCH REVOLUTION.
Again it played into
him
like a dream as he
moved the index cards, examined the typewritten sheets, and then the
sense of time distorted rushed in again to
his
temples.
He ran through his index cards again, this time with
his
thumb,
just to touch the sheer weight. He threw them down on the rug. They
spread out evenly, and he rose, stepped over them and went into his
bedroom.
And tomorrow he, Auerbach, must face a class and he must face
Crane, stand before the great bulk of the man, he, Auerbach, little
Jew of C.C.N.Y. To tell his classes and to tell Crane. The thesis to
be
HISTORY AND THE ALPHABET OF AGONY.
It became smoother to
him as he eased himself into bed. He would have to begin again,
perhaps in the train, walk back alone, in darkness along the track, but
now he could go no further. He pulled his knees toward his chest, head
bowed to meet them as he hovered toward the center of sleep.
