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“It’s not a very good book,” I said. “It’s written by an amateur; it’s published by a vanity press.”

“So what’s wrong with an amateur writing a book?” Mrs. Brocklebank wanted to know. She is probably writing one of her own, it occurs to me now. “So what’s wrong with a ‘vanity press’?” she asked.

The book that tells the truth about the starfish is called The Life of the Tidepool by Archibald Thorndike. Old Thorny was an amateur naturalist and an amateur diarist, and after he retired from Gravesend Academy, he spent two years scrutinizing a tidepool in Rye Harbor; at his own expense, he published a book about it and sold autographed copies of the book every Alumni Day. He parked his station wagon by the tennis courts and sold his books off the tailgate, chatting with all the alumni who wanted to talk to him; since he was a very popular headmaster—and since he was replaced by a particularly unpopular headmaster—almost all the alumni wanted to talk to old Thorny. I suppose he sold a lot of copies of The Life of the Tidepool; he might even have made money. Maybe he wasn’t such an amateur, after all. He knew how to handle The Voice—by not handling him. And The Voice would prove to be the undoing of the new headmaster, in the end.

In the end, I yielded to Mrs. Brocklebank’s frenzy to educate herself; I said I’d lend her my copy of The Life of the Tidepool.

“Be sure to remind Heather to reread the first ‘phase’ of Tess,” I told Mrs. Brocklebank.

“Heather’s not reading her assignments?” Mrs. Brocklebank asked in alarm.

“It’s spring,” I reminded her. “All the girls aren’t reading their assignments. Heather’s doing just fine.” Indeed, Heather Brocklebank is one of my better students; she has inherited her mother’s ardor—while, at the same time, her imagination ranges far beyond dandelions.

In a flash, I think of giving my Grade 12 English class a sneak quiz; if they gave the first “phase” of Tess such a sloppy reading, I’ll bet they skipped the Introduction altogether—and I had assigned the Introduction, too; I don’t always do that, but there’s an Introduction by Robert B. Heilman that’s especially helpful to first readers of Hardy. I know a really nasty quiz question! I think—looking at Mrs. Brocklebank, clutching her murdered dandelions.

“What was Thomas Hardy’s earlier title for Tess?”

Ha! It’s nothing they could ever guess; if they’d read the Introduction, they’d know it was Too Late Beloved—they’d at least remember the “too late” part. Then I remembered that Hardy had written a story—before Tess—called “The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid”; I wondered if I could throw in that title, to confuse them. Then I remembered that Mrs. Brocklebank was standing on the sidewalk with her handful of dandelions, waiting for me to fetch her The Life of the Tidepool. And last of all I remembered that Owen Meany and I first read Tess of the d’Urbervilles in our tenth-grade year at Gravesend Academy; we were in Mr. Early’s English class—it was the winter term of 1960—and I was struggling with Thomas Hardy to the point of tears. Mr. Early was a fool to try Tess on tenth graders. At Bishop Strachan, I have long argued with my colleagues that we should teach Hardy in Grade 13—even Grade 12 is too soon! Even The Brothers Karamazov is easier than Tess!

“I can’t read this!” I remember saying to Owen. He tried to help me; he helped me with everything else, but Tess was simply too difficult. “I can’t read about milking cows!” I screamed.

“IT’S NOT ABOUT MILKING COWS,” Ow

en said crossly.

“I don’t care what it’s about; I hate it,” I said.

“THAT’S A TRULY INTELLIGENT ATTITUDE,” Owen said. “IF YOU CAN’T READ IT, DO YOU WANT ME TO READ IT ALOUD TO YOU?”

I am so ashamed of myself to remember this: that he would do even that for me—that he would read Tess of the d’Urbervilles aloud to me! At the time, the thought of hearing that whole novel in his voice was staggering.

“I can’t read it and I can’t listen to it, either,” I said.

“FINE,” Owen said. “THEN YOU TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO. I CAN TELL YOU THE WHOLE STORY, I CAN WRITE YOUR TERM PAPER—AND IF THERE’S AN EXAM, YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO BULLSHIT AS WELL AS YOU CAN: IF I TELL YOU THE WHOLE STORY, MAYBE YOU’LL ACTUALLY REMEMBER SOME OF IT. THE POINT IS, I CAN DO YOUR HOMEWORK FOR YOU—IT’S NOT HARD FOR ME AND I DON’T MIND DOING IT—OR I CAN TEACH YOU HOW TO DO YOUR OWN HOMEWORK. THAT WOULD BE A LITTLE HARDER—FOR BOTH OF US—BUT IT MIGHT TURN OUT TO BE USEFUL FOR YOU TO BE ABLE TO DO YOUR OWN WORK. I MEAN, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO—AFTER I’M GONE?”

“What do you mean, after you’re gone?” I asked him.

“LOOK AT IT ANOTHER WAY,” he said patiently. “ARE YOU GOING TO GET A JOB? AFTER YOU’RE THROUGH WITH SCHOOL, I MEAN—ARE YOU GOING TO WORK? ARE YOU GOING TO A UNIVERSITY? ARE WE GOING TO GO TO THE SAME UNIVERSITY? AM I GOING TO DO YOUR HOMEWORK THERE, TOO? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO MAJOR IN?”

“What are you going to major in?” I asked him; my feelings were hurt—but I knew what he was driving at, and he was right.

“GEOLOGY,” he said. “I’M IN THE GRANITE BUSINESS.”

“That’s crazy!” I said. “It’s not your business. You can study anything you want, you don’t have to study rocks!”

“ROCKS ARE INTERESTING,” Owen said stubbornly. “GEOLOGY IS THE HISTORY OF THE EARTH.”

“I can’t read Tess of the d’Urbervilles!” I cried. “It’s too hard!”

“YOU MEAN IT’S HARD TO MAKE YOURSELF READ IT, YOU MEAN IT’S HARD TO MAKE YOURSELF PAY ATTENTION,” he said. “BUT IT’S NOT TESS OF THE D’URBERVILLES THAT’S HARD. THOMAS HARDY MAY BORE YOU BUT HE’S VERY EASY TO UNDERSTAND—HE’S OBVIOUS, HE TELLS YOU EVERYTHING YOU HAVE TO KNOW.”

“He tells me more than I want to know!” I cried.

“YOUR BOREDOM IS YOUR PROBLEM,” said Owen Meany. “IT’S YOUR LACK OF IMAGINATION THAT BORES YOU. HARDY HAS THE WORLD FIGURED OUT. TESS IS DOOMED. FATE HAS IT IN FOR HER. SHE’S A VICTIM; IF YOU’RE A VICTIM, THE WORLD WILL USE YOU. WHY SHOULD SOMEONE WHO’S GOT SUCH A WORKED-OUT WAY OF SEEING THE WORLD BORE YOU? WHY SHOULDN’T YOU BE INTERESTED IN SOMEONE WHO’S WORKED OUT A WAY TO SEE THE WORLD? THAT’S WHAT MAKES WRITERS INTERESTING! MAYBE YOU SHOULD BE AN ENGLISH MAJOR. AT LEAST, YOU GET TO READ STUFF THAT’S WRITTEN BY PEOPLE WHO CAN WRITE! YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING TO BE AN ENGLISH MAJOR, YOU DON’T NEED ANY SPECIAL TALENT, YOU JUST HAVE TO PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT SOMEONE WANTS YOU TO SEE—TO WHAT MAKES SOMEONE ANGRIEST, OR THE MOST EXCITED IN SOME OTHER WAY. IT’S SO EASY; I THINK THAT’S WHY THERE ARE SO MANY ENGLISH MAJORS.”

“It’s not easy for me!” I cried. “I hate reading this book!”

“DO YOU HATE TO READ MOST BOOKS?” Owen asked me.