Changing The Words Part II

This is from the passage on page 21.


I did not see the real significance of my English teacher at once. I fancy I see it now – but I am not sure – not at all. Certainly in years nine and ten I was too stupid – when I think of it – to be altogether appreciative. Still… But in year twelve my English teacher presented himself simply as a literary genius. The class was inspirational. He had started two years before in a university up in Canada with his stimulating professor on board, in charge of his complete future, and before he had been at university for three years he graduated at the top of his class and settled down near Zurich. I asked myself what I was to learn from him – now my English lessons were no longer lost. As a matter of fact I had plenty to write about on my blog on the internet. After an assignment I had to write about it the very next day. That and the poetry he brought in books to class took over our first semester.

My first class with Mr. Doubt was curious. He did not wait for me to come to class after my day late entry to school this year. He was Canadian in complexion, in feature, in manners, and in voice. He was of Frisbee-player size and of ordinary build. His eyes of the usual literary inquiry were perhaps remarkably cold and he certainly could make my grade fall as trenchant and heavy as an axe. But even at these times of poor essay writing the rest of his personality seemed to disclaim the intention to lower my GPA.