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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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<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.