I most often see Sesbania drummondii, known as rattlebush, at the edges of creeks and ponds. On August 23rd, when I walked in the mostly waterless bed of the creek that flows through the part of Great Hills Park nearest to where I live, I found a good many rattlebush plants springing up right in the dry creek bed. No flowers had opened yet, but the readying buds caught my attention. Then I focused on one of the plant's arcs of leaflets; graceful, don't you think?
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Anyone in the academic humanities—anyone who's gotten within smelling distance of the academic humanities these last 40 years—will see the problem. Loving books is not why people are supposed to become English professors, and it hasn't been for a long time. Loving books is scoffed at (or would be, if anybody ever copped to it). The whole concept of literature—still more, of art—has been discredited. Novels, poems, stories, plays: these are "texts," no different in kind from other texts. The purpose of studying them is not to appreciate or understand them; it is to "interrogate" them for their ideological investments (in patriarchy, in white supremacy, in Western imperialism and ethnocentrism), and then to unmask and debunk them, to drain them of their poisonous persuasive power. The passions that are meant to draw people to the profession of literary study, these last many years, are not aesthetic; they are political.
That's from William Deresiewicz's August 17th essay in Quillette, "Why I left Academia." The subtitle is "I didn't have a choice. Thousands of people are driven out of the profession each year." You're welcome to read the full essay.
© 2022 Steven Schwartzman
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