In Love with France, At Home In Italy

  Over the years that I was refining and proofing Letters to Men of Letters for the umpteenth time, I decided to maintain a list of my own favorite parts. Sometimes I had to ask myself, “Did I really write those words?” The answer is yes! I will be quoting some of them like these:  One of my most dear Men of Letters, my Yale colleague, Jacques I frequently walk by New Haven’s historic Grove Street Cemetery, and it looks like a nice place to be. Further, that it’s populated by so many honchos suggests that they are less likely ever to be disturbed. And I’ve always said that sooner or later everyone who is anyone comes to Yale, so chances are that this might be a good final resting place. I am going to look into it. To be there would also be in keeping with my life choice to enjoy being a small fish in a big pond.  I once wrote, It’s fall, and death is in the air. But then again, it always was. From Day One. Life is what we do to keep ourselves from noticing. Perhaps what ...

The Dean of my residential college is a man of many parts--adviser, psychologist, teacher, wordsmith, disciplinarian, but mostly philosopher. During any given year, four hundred students look to him for whatever they are missing from home. Every Sunday night, he sends something he modestly calls "Notes and News," whose ostensible purpose is to forecast events and opportunities. But the highlight is always a thoughtful essay about how to live. On the cusp of returning to my academic home, I am thinking about an idea he brought up in last week's message:the concept of the liminal zone--the place where both expats and college students dwell, perhaps without even realizing it. "Liminal zone" is a fancy term for being poised on a threshold--neither here, nor there. As someone who has given her heart to more than one country, I like to think I know something about that. France started off as the love of my life. I teach her language and literat...