Pease Out There

ONE DAY, in the middle of one of Don Pease's dramatic lectures on contemporary American fiction, a student in the fifth row of 105 Dartmouth got up, put his backpack on, and started moving toward the aisle. "Wait!" said Pease. "Where are you going?" It took a minute for the guy to realize Pease was talking to him. "No, I mean you," Pease said as the guy kept moving. "Where are you going?"

The guy froze like a deer. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Where are you going?"

The guy was terrified. "I don't know," he said, ridiculously.

"You're leaving?" Pease said, hurt and incredulous.

"Uh, yeah. I guess."

"But why?"

"I guess I'm just not into it," he said, again displaying unremarkable verbal skills.

Pease put his hand on his forehead—as if to think and feel pain at the same time. "I mean," said Pease, "if we are having a conversation. And I'm talking. And you just walk away...I mean that's...that's...I mean that's really something. I mean what would you think if we were talking and I just walked away?"

"I guess I wouldn't like it."

"I mean that's what it's

like...because I'm up here...and when you're up here you're really out there, you're communicating. And then someone walks away..."

I forget whether the guy left or not.

Pease: Can we talk?