A Theory of Justice

By John Rawls. Pages 3-195. I'm on page 13.

After meeting possibly the most important and gracious person on campus, the Librarian, I'm in a bit better spirits for no other reason that she is a gift from God to students everywhere. My situation is still desperate and hopeless. I got acquainted with the library which is small and beautiful. It inspires reverence for knowledge. You realize how sacred cataloging is. It takes someone with finesse to run a library like the Harris Manchester Private Library.

Anyway, I've already checked out five intimidating books and printed off one 30 page article. I'm not done yet. I figured I'd dive right into John Rawls because he's the main focus for week 1. I found a cozy little nook and began my reading. I can't write directly in the book, so taking notes is rather difficult. Round about page 11 I dropped my pen with several clanks on the desk, then floor. Not wanting to scoot my chair back and make even more disruptive noises, I folded my body in half while still sitting in my chair, reached my arm and head under the desk, grabbed my pen and noticed the names on the books behind me on the bottom shelf: Wordsworth. Both Dorothy and William.
My heart fell. I looked up and around a little. Shelley. Keats and his odes. Dylan Thomas. Larkin. Byron. Edmund Blunden. I'd managed to intuitively select the poetry section. I reached for poor upside down Edmund. "Hey old friend" I dorkishly muttered. It wasn't Undertones of War but it was him alright. He'd helped me get in this terrible mess I'm in. All these poets watched as I line by line deciphered Rawls' interpretation of justice as fairness in the original position. Like me, they wanted to know why I was doing this. I don't rightly know. But it's too late now. I can't very well spend the time leafing through their works when Rawls demands my attention.

They shall remain neglected by the likes of me.

I was the first person to dinner this evening so I sat at the very first chair of the first table. That meant it was my duty to serve everyone their red beans and beef. I was complimented on my serving technique and ability. That I accredit to my dear mother, who taught me the formal way of dishing food and passing plates. As a child when I continually questioned why she insisted on teaching me this useless skill, she must have known I'd be able to use it at Oxford. She must have thought, "When she goes to Oxford or is dining with the President or the Grand Duke of Luxembourg, she'll have the proper manners to do so."

And I do. Thanks mom. You made me look good.