A girl speaks about the meaning of
the book, addressing the rows of
students at length and with relish,
and I, sitting quiet in my desk, can
hear nothing but the fan behind
me, whirring conceitedly, freezing
my back, and blowing the pages
of my notebook hither and thither,
and it echoes what she says, its
oscillations keeping time with the
drone of her voice, and she, trying
hard to keep going, throwing words
out everywhere like a pedantic
preacher, some of them occasioning
to hit a fellow student and knock
him unconscious, drooping upon his
desk, is not aware of the grand
symphony she is a part of, with the
fan, her words, and the turning of
pages crescendoing until the final,
crashing note of the clock striking
one, and I want to stop her, shake
her, and say The movement's over,
but she is taken away by the music,
and she launches into a solo.
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