It's the end of a school year, and for those graduating high school seniors, the start of a bright new journey. I'm sending my senior students off into the world with the joyous, optimistic words of...Tolstoy? I didn't plan it this way, but somehow, The Death of Ivan Ilyich got pushed back to the last two weeks of class, and so now my students' last memories of senior English will be the classic story of dying and depression. If you're not familiar, Ivan Ilyich tells the painful story of a middle-aged man's thoughts as he slowly and uncomprehendingly dies of a vague illness. A group of thoughtful adults might find the short novel powerful. Perhaps a book club would choose to read it in the depths of winter after finishing a lighter read like Jane Austen. But no, I prefer the irony of exuberant youth reading it as the first blooms of the season begin to show their colors, and the world suddenly seems alive.
My guilt gets the better of me. Maybe if I hand out inspiring quotes on the last day, it'll counteract the damage, preventing them from walking away cynical old souls who know what it's like to lie sick day after day in a dark Russian home, with only a cheerful young servant to pity them. Or maybe I'm overestimating the role of literature (and myself) in their lives.
Farewell, young seniors. May your lives be more enriching than that of Ivan Ilyich.
Monday, May 19, 2008
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