Percivale (percivale) wrote,
Percivale
percivale

Pentecost

I tried to write a Senior Thesis that showed how considering every word literally opens inevitably into the strange open spaces of poetry; that the literal is not so much a fixed basic level of interpretation as a deceptive ground that continues to give way when tested, to give back when probed, giving way to a chaste listening, giving back the strange fruits of what is, alluring, beautiful, dangerous, because alive with the secret breath that carries its quiet letters still and forever in speech.

Friday night I heard the Literature Theses of the class below mine; my world is officially rocked. My class's Theses were solidly whupped. It was an amazing, invigorating, exhausting night. "O wonder! how many goodly people are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world that has such people in it!" We talked after wards on the smoker's porch (me, Finny, Miss Bonifield, Dr. Mumbach, Mr. Shea having entertained us with his inimitable stories listening strangely quiet) about everything: the school, the theses, but mostly about the people, their persons, their gifts. Wow. I love them all.

Saturday morning I met with Dr. Nelson, and we talked . . . for two hours. A chance to lay bear wounds, to offer charity, to try to say the things that my count in the long run . . . really to put forward a helpless case with all the grace one can muster, but one whose potential power is infinite. I have so much care for that school, so much hope, so much doubt. But there are so many signs of Grace. The gods perhaps draw closer to the threatened, the shadows become richer, lights more luminous.

I'll be back in a week for graduation.
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