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[greyate]

"This is Jean. I can't answer right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you."

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oh charles

[greyate]

[ She's surprised and yet not to see the book there. It's a common book in the mansion and a favorite of the Professor's. But she sits on the edge of the bed and reads the passage, feeling her lips turn up some. Only some as she tries to stop herself from smiling. He would to this.

Well, one good turn deserves another.

He will find, later that evening as he returns to his own quarters, a thin book with a marker of its own. And the page marked read: ]

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

The Feet, mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

<3

[welcomeprofessor]

[He takes the book and ponders it for a time; the melancholia and sorrow of Dickensen is almost too apt. (He's taught Jean too well.) It gives him an heartache as it's intended, a deep understanding of the continued roiling upset and confusion. And yet, in it, still hope.

It takes some time for a reply, well into the late afternoon of the next day, before she finds a hefty, well-loved book in the place of the first, with a similar highlighted note:]

But he struck his chest and curbed his fighting heart:
"Bear up, old heart! You've borne worse, far worse,
that day when the Cyclops, man-mountain, bolted
your hardy comrades down. But you held fast —
Nobody but your cunning pulled you through
the monster's cave you thought would be your death."
So he forced his spirit into submission,
the rage in his breast reined back — unswerving,
all endurance.

these nerds <3

[greyate]

[ It'll be in the morning that Charles will find her "response" in the form of a play, this time, on his office desk. She learned from the best and she's kind of enjoying responding in this fashion. ]

“What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”

i love them

[welcomeprofessor]

[He gives the choice of play a curious expression as a whole, hitting him with just the right amount of melancholy--likely intended--and sighs. How best to impart what he means?

How about a more literal turnabout to a previous response? That afternoon, she'll find a familiar book--one she's already given in turn, with the marker moved:]

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.