“Sure.”
His eyes, which moved to the front of the class, made me turn my head instinctively.
Professor Singer ambled towards the wide platform at the center of the class and dropped her brown leather briefcase on it. Silence filled the room as she brought out a book and looked up to face the class, her green eyes alive behind her tortoiseshell-framed glasses.
The professor had a signature austere look that was neither smile nor frown. But it was always safer never to smile or laugh when it was directed at you.
“Hello, everyone. Today, we’ll be moving on from our exploration of the tension between scientific discoveries and traditional religious beliefs as seen in the works of Tennyson, to” she lifted her right forefinger, her elbows still on the wooden platform. “I have received the interesting analyses of the cited works in my email. I’ve been going through them, and feedback will follow in a few days. Well, those that weren’t discarded for coming in after Monday, you already know.”
A low rumble of laughter spread for a minute.
Then her attention was on the book in her hands, a loud-enough signal for everyone to be silent.
“We’ll be going into the intersection of realism and romanticism.”
I nodded, my interest blooming. Everything else-the eerie feeling that nagged me since I woke up, my slight worryabout not hearing from my dad in about a week-diminished, and the new topic was the only thing on my mind.
I loved literature and the world of words, but anything with the remotest connection to romanticism and the romantics piqued my interest.
I can’t help it. I’m a hopeless romantic.
“We’ll explore both poetic movements in isolation before looking at them in comparison,” she started, and I opened my leatherback journal, pen in hand.
Professor Singer lectured away, and my pen didn’t stop moving until after three pages. She paused, and I looked up.
“It seems only natural to see a need to explore the intersection of realists with the romanticism movement, doesn’t it? Thoughts?”
Gary lifted his hand from the second row.
“Go on,” the professor prompted.
“It does,” he answered, nodding emphatically.
Shut up and sit down, dude.
After about four more similar answers, the professor declared, “Of course, it does not.”
She dropped the book and looked up again, her expression almost annoyed.
“The very core of romanticism is a feeling that many would argue is nothing more than a glorified sentiment. Realism, on the other hand, is real-life. Nothing gets more real than these depictions; they are everyday truths.” Her eyes perused the hall for a moment before she continued, “So, if someone was talking about contrasting both poetic styles or movements, it only makes sense. Now, what is not ordinarily expected is looking at similarities, points of intersection between both of them.”
A wave of murmurs filled the hall again for a few seconds before she cleared her throat and picked up her book.
“The first instance of realism and romanticism seeming to…”
The lecture went on for another 80 minutes or so until it was time to call it a day.
Ruby was beside me the second the professor left the hall. I hadn’t even closed my notebook yet.
“I’ve still not been able to get the text compilation. Seems the bookshop doesn’t carry it for now, and borrowing from the library is a shit chance, you know,” she explained, a persuasive smile crossing her glossy lips, “Would you please lend me yours? I’d give it back after the weekend, I promise.”
“What you should promise me is that you won’t take it out of your room,” I pointed out. “At all.”
“Promise,” she affirmed, “Thank you!”
“Yeah,” I breathed, handing the small textbook to her.
The rest of the day passed unceremoniously.
