Bill's Notes

Just found out a former professor died back in December. He was a professor who enjoyed students and that's part of what made him such as excellent professor. The funny thing about him was he tried to trade in the latest critical theories, and he knew them inside and out and worked them into his lectures. He'd done all the reading, and seemed to believe it. He'd written books on it. But deep down, in his heart, which he revealed in his fiction, Bill V. was a humanist — and an obvious one. He loved his students. He loved writing. He loved literature. He loved life. That's not the kind of politicized detachment you get if you believe theory. It's what you get if you are an unrepentant affirmer of life, when you go around looking for things that are cool, which is what he did ... So he wrote about wives in Nigeria or a trailer park resident in Florida, or the story for which he was most well-known, about an aging father tending his garden.

Back in December, I sent him an e-mail telling him that a former colleague of his died. I never got a response, and thought it was unlike him. But now I know why. He'd have appreciated the irony.

RIP, Bill. Say hi to Sterne and Fielding for me.