'I don't care what it's about; I hate it,' I said.
'THAT'S A TRULY INTELLIGENT ATTITUDE,' Owen said. 'IF YOU CAN'T READ IT, DO YOU WANT ME TO READ IT ALOUD TO YOU?'
I am so ashamed of myself to remember this: that he would do even that for me-that he would read Tess of the d'Urbervilles aloud to me! At the time, the thought of hearing that whole novel in his voice was staggering.
'I can't read it and I can't listen to it, either,' I said.
'FINE,' Owen said. 'THEN YOU TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO. I CAN TELL YOU THE WHOLE STORY, I CAN WRITE YOUR TERM PAPER-AND IF THERE'S AN EXAM, YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO BULLSHIT AS WELL AS YOU CAN: IF I TELL YOU THE WHOLE STORY, MAYBE YOU'LL ACTUALLY REMEMBER SOME OF IT. THE POINT IS, I CAN DO YOUR HOMEWORK FOR YOU-IT'S NOT HARD FOR ME AND I DON'T MIND DOING IT-OR I CAN TEACH YOU HOW TO DO YOUR OWN HOMEWORK. THAT WOULD BE A
LITTLE HARDER-FOR BOTH OF US-BUT IT MIGHT TURN OUT TO BE USEFUL FOR YOU TO BE ABLE TO DO YOUR OWN WORK. I MEAN, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO-AFTER I'M GONE?'
'What do you mean, after you're goneT' I asked him.
'LOOK AT IT ANOTHER WAY,' he said patiently. 'ARE YOU GOING TO GET A JOB? AFTER YOU'RE THROUGH WITH SCHOOL, I MEAN-ARE YOU GOING TO WORK? ARE YOU GOING TO A UNIVERSITY? ARE WE GOING TO GO TO THE SAME UNIVERSITY? AM I GOING TO DO YOUR HOMEWORK THERE, TOO? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO MAJOR IN?'
'What are you going to major in?' I asked him; my feelings were hurt-but I knew what he was driving at, and he was right.
'GEOLOGY,' he said. 'I'M IN THE GRANITE BUSINESS.'
'That's crazy!' I said. 'It's not your business. You can study anything you want, you don't have to study rocks!'
'ROCKS ARE INTERESTING,' Owen said stubbornly. 'GEOLOGY IS THE HISTORY OF THE EARTH.'
'I can't read Tess of the d'Urbervillesl' I cried. 'It's too hard!'
'YOU MEAN IT'S HARD TO MAKE YOURSELF READ IT, YOU MEAN IT'S HARD TO MAKE YOURSELF PAY ATTENTION,' he said. 'BUT IT'S NOT TESS OF THE D'URBERVILLES THAT'S HARD. THOMAS HARDY MAY BORE YOU BUT HE'S VERY EASY TO UNDERSTAND- HE'S OBVIOUS, HE TELLS YOU EVERYTHING YOU HA VETO KNOW.'
'He tells me more than I want to know!' I cried.
'YOUR BOREDOM IS YOUR PROBLEM,' said Owen Meany. 'IT'S YOUR LACK OF IMAGINATION THAT BORES YOU. HARDY HAS THE WORLD FIGURED OUT. TESS IS DOOMED. FATE HAS IT IN FOR HER. SHE'S A VICTIM; IF YOU'RE A VICTIM, THE WORLD WILL USE YOU. WHY SHOULD SOMEONE WHO'S GOT SUCH A WORKED-OUT WAY OF SEEING THE WORLD BORE YOU? WHY SHOULDN'T YOU BE INTERESTED IN SOMEONE WHO'S WORKED OUT A WAY TO SEE THE WORLD? THAT'S WHAT MAKES WRITERS INTERESTING! MAYBE YOU SHOULD BE AN ENGLISH MAJOR. AT LEAST, YOU GET TO READ STUFF THAT'S WRIT- TEN BY PEOPLE WHO CAN WRITE I YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING TO BE AN ENGLISH MAJOR, YOU DON'T NEED ANY SPECIAL TALENT, YOU JUST HAVE TO PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT SOMEONE WANTS YOU TO SEE-TO WHAT MAKES SOMEONE ANGRIEST, OR THE MOST EXCITED IN SOME OTHER WAY. IT'S SO EASY; I THINK THAT'S WHY THERE ARE SO MANY ENGLISH MAJORS.'
'It's not easy for me!' I cried. 'I hate reading this book!'
'DO YOU HATE TO READ MOST BOOKS?' Owen asked me.
'Yes!' I said.
'DO YOU SEE THAT THE PROBLEM IS NOT TESST' he asked me.
'Yes,' I admitted.
'NOW WE'RE GETTING SOMEWHERE,' said Owen Meany-my friend, my teacher. Standing on the sidewalk with Mrs. Brocklebank, I felt the tears start to come.
'Do you have allergies?' Mrs. Brocklebank asked me; I shook my head. I feel so ashamed of myself that-even for a moment-I could consider zapping my Grade girls with a nasty quiz on Tess of the d' Urbervilles. Remembering how I suffered as a student, remembering how much I needed Owen's help, how could I even think of being a sneaky teacher?
'I think you do have an allergy,' Mrs. Brocklebank concluded from my tears. 'Lots of people have allergies and don't even know; I've read about that.'
'It must be the dandelions,' I said; and Mrs. Brocklebank glared at the pestilential weeds with a fresh hatred. Every spring there are dandelions; they always remind me of the spring term of -the burgeoning of that old decade that once seemed so new to Owen Meany and me. That was the spring when the Search Committee found a new headmaster. That was the decade that would defeat us. Randolph White had been the headmaster of a small private day school in Lake Forest, Illinois; I'm told that is a super-rich and exclusively WASP community that does its utmost to pretend it is
