assembly line at General Motors, again and again. And again. One of the great things about teaching at
the University of Michigan–Flint, as opposed to the University of Michigan, is ceaseless contact with
adult learners, many of whom hunger for more learning. I also have plenty of the typical-college-
student type, but the nontraditional students have taught me a few things. First, never assume anything
about background experience. I’ve had students who have read all of Joyce or Faulkner or
Hemingway, and one who had read more Czech novels than I could ever hope to get through, as well
as students who had read pretty much only Stephen King or Danielle Steel. There have been
Hitchcock fanatics and devotees of Bergman and Fellini, and others who thought Dallas was high art.
And you can never tell which will be which.
Second, explain yourself. They expect, and are sometimes more vocal about it than their younger
classmates, to see how the trick is done. Whether they think I am the high priest or the high charlatan,
they want to know how the magic works, how I arrive at my sometimes idiosyncratic readings.
And third, teach precepts, then stand aside. Once I show these older students how I work with
texts, I get out of the way. This is not because of the wonders of my approach or my teaching; chiefly,
what happens is that I validate something about their own way of reading that gives them permission
to run free, and run they do. Younger students do, too, but they are often more inhibited, having spent
their whole lives inside classrooms. There’s nothing like being out on your own to make you
intellectually self-reliant.
Are these older students all geniuses? No, although a few might be. Nor are they all closet
intellectuals, although more than a few are—you know, the sort who get nicknamed “Professor”
because they’re seen reading books on their lunch break. But however smart they may be, they push
me and school me even as I do the same to them. So I figured there must be others out there like them.
And it was for that group that I wrote this book.
Boy, was I wrong. I was right, too. I have heard from quite a lot of mature readers, some of whom
fit the above descriptions, others who had been English majors in college but who had been left with
the feeling that something was missing, that some key element of literary study had passed them by. I
would receive the occasional e-mail from such readers. Then, about two years in, the nature of those
missives changed. I started hearing from English teachers. Not often, but every once in a while. And
about six months after that, I started hearing from high school students. The teachers were uniformly
glowing in their praise, the students mostly so. With just enough hate mail to make it clear that this
wasn’t a put-up job. One student said, in one of the more printable messages, “I don’t know what the
big deal is. Everything in your book I learned in ninth grade.” I told her I would like to shake her
ninth-grade teacher’s hand. And no refunds. It was also at about this time that I heard indirectly that
the book was being discussed on a site for Advanced Placement English teachers.
In the years since, I have been blessed to have contact with teachers and students from around the
country. There have been all sorts of inquiries, from “What did you mean by X?” to “Can I apply this
notion to that book that you didn’t discuss?” to “Can you look over my thesis sentence (or my whole
paper)?” The first two are great, the latter less so, since it puts me in an awkward ethical position.
Even so, it is flattering that students trust a complete stranger enough to ask such questions.
I have also had plenty of direct interaction. I go into several classrooms a year to talk with classes
about the book and how they’re using it. These visits are a lot of fun and almost always involve a
great question or two. Needless to say, the in-person visits are largely limited to places I can drive in
a few hours, although I did once go as far afield as Fort Thomas, Kentucky. I have also, thanks to the
wonders of the digital age, been able to engage with students electronically. Diane Burrowes, the
queen of academic marketing at HarperCollins, stays up nights thinking of new and strange ways to
get me, or at least a digital version thereof, into classrooms from New Jersey and Virginia to
Flagstaff, Arizona. And of course the development of platforms like Skype has made such visits
almost commonplace.
What has struck me most in the ensuing years is the endless inventiveness of secondary English
teachers in general and AP teachers in particular. They have figured out ways to use this book that
would never have occurred to me if I taught for a thousand years. In one class, each student is
assigned as the keeper of a chapter; if Sam is in charge of rain and snow, he makes a poster
explaining the significant elements of the chapter, and whenever the reading involves precipitation,
Sam is prepared to discuss its implications. I suspect Sam got a raw deal and has to work harder than
almost anyone else, but maybe he likes being busy. In another class, students work in groups to make
short movies, and every movie must incorporate at least one concept from the book. At the end of the
year, they have a mock-Oscar ceremony, complete with tuxedos and statuettes (used sports trophies,
I’m told). Now that’s just brilliant. What I like best about many of the schemes is the degree of student
autonomy built into them. I suspect that one of the appealing elements of the book is that it lacks the
apparatus of a textbook, which allows teachers to make of it what they will—and they make many
different things of it. In turn, many of them pass that open-endedness along to their students, permitting
them to be creative with the text and their own insights.
Is that the key to the book’s popularity among teachers? I don’t know. I was amazed when I first
heard that it was being adopted for courses, my thoughts revolving around the utter absence of
academic trappings (things like notes, glosses, and questions at the end of chapters, which, by the
way, I’ve always hated) and the scattershot organization. I grouped the discussions in a way that felt
right to me, but that’s not the same as making sense for classroom use. Indeed, I am not sure what
would make sense in a classroom setting, since I have never, and would never, use the book in a
course. How’s that for a confession? It is not an excess of modesty, a thing of which I have never
been accused, that prevents my using it. The reason is more practical. This book contains most of my
literary insights and all my jokes. If I assigned it, I would have nothing left to do. The goal of
education, as I see it, is to bring students to the point where they no longer need you—in essence, to
put yourself out of a job . . . but that retirement would be a little more sudden than I’d prefer.
So when I heard that teachers were assigning the book as summer reading, I was more than a little
astonished. That it has found a home in high schools is testament to the creativity and intelligence of
secondary teachers of English. They’re working at a time when, we’re told, no one reads anymore,
yet they somehow manage to inspire a love of reading among their students. They work incredibly
hard, grading work by as many as 150 students at a time, a load that just thinking about would make
most university professors woozy. They get far too little respect and not nearly enough pay for doing a
remarkable job. One of my more waggish colleagues, noting my frequent visits to secondary classes,
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