Читать книгу The Form of Faith - James Prothero - Страница 9

A man’s life of any worth is a continual allegory—and very few eyes can see the mystery of life—a life like the Scriptures, figurative . . . .

—John Keats

My parents told me that if my grades went up, I could escape my prison and rejoin my brothers in public school. At this point, whatever effect the ADD had on me, I was outgrowing it somehow, and the possibility of escape from tyranny was enough to cause me to become a rather good student. My grades shot up like a balloon trapped under water and released. I do admit with some shame that it was not until I’d been in college for some time that I became as hard-working and good a student as I was really capable of. And I had a very poor reason for this. Donald by this time was an honor-roll student and fiercely competitive in academic circles. Perhaps it was Donald’s influence, but I was as disinclined to be competitive as he was inclined to be competitive. Maybe I learned the best way to compete with Donald was not to compete. In that junior high and later high school atmosphere heavy with peer pressure, I did not want to be compared to Don. I was smart enough to get Bs without trying too hard, so that is what I did. And the habit unfortunately stayed with me all through undergraduate school.

In the eighth grade I was liberated and granted the right to go to public junior high. There I saw more beautiful young girls around me than I thought were possible in the world. One pretty girl named Rita, with long, black hair, who sat next to me in typing class, almost caused me to unravel on the floor. I was never one of those boys who disliked girls when I was in elementary. I never said, “Ew! Girls! Yuk!” or pretended to be disgusted by them. More likely I was to be found playing house with them when I was small, and casting admiring glances thereafter. There was always a girl I had a crush on. I always was in awe of women, of their beauty in all its various forms and of the goodness and grace they bestow on the human race. And I still am. I am an inveterate philogynist—a lover of women. This may seem a funny point to bring up, but I have often wondered if it was the boys who hated girls when those boys were still in elementary school who subsequently abused their wives, daughters, and girlfriends in adulthood. I remember having a crush on one young beauty in my class, Sharon Fitzgerald, which led me to do a rather good pastel portrait of her. I caught her in the hall one day and gave it to her. She was very gracious and started talking to me with interest, while I stood there mainly tongue-tied and stupid. Then she thanked me and walked away. I felt a mix of relief that she liked the portrait and frustration that I couldn’t do more with the conversation but sweat and stutter.