Chapter 1 I have been asked, I'm afraid, to explain myself. Not by the court--they don't want to hear it. And not by you, since we understand each other, and anyway they won't let me write to you. They've assured me of this several times, even though I haven't asked. I am under no illusions. I see how it all looks. I saw it all along, and yet--here we are. I guess that's the part that's supposed to be interesting. Nietzsche says we must cease to think if we refuse to do it in the prison house of language. This seems to imply we have an option. Tell me a story about Zembla , you used to say, or, Tell me a story about Harvard . Tell me how you fell in love with language. Tell me how you fell in love with me . You'd tell me your own stories from your reading, your dreams, your own imagination--you had a real saga about a fortune teller and an illusionist and their great love affair in nineteenth-century New York City. I think you might have turned into a novelist, if we'd been allowed to go on. I can only hope that, in the long years ahead, your stories will sustain you. That it's a better quality of silence, this time around. My deepest fear is that it isn't--that I have woken you in your coffin only to leave you there, forever. And yes, I do know how this sounds--as though I imagine myself to have conjured you, raised you Lazarus-like into existence, when we both know quite the opposite is true. What I really mean to say is that this is how it feels, sometimes: as though I have left you something worse than dead. If I have--oh please, my love, forgive me. Oh please, my love, forgive me either way. [sb] But the people demand a beginning! Here's one that casts me as an extremely sympathetic figure: Two months after my husband died, I was kicked out of the Annual Linguistics and Philosophy of Language Conference. At the time, I was four months pregnant with my dead husband's child. I was subsequently asked to leave my graduate program, which had already put me $78,000 in debt. I then suffered a miscarriage--because of the stress, possibly, though in this version, we'll assert the link with certainty. My four-year-old daughter Josephine and I moved in with my mother in Medford, Massachusetts--not the nice part--and I began hunting for jobs. My daughter was named after Jo from Little Women . Has there ever been a person more courageous, more endearing, in misfortune? The stated reason for my expulsion from the conference was insubordination--of which curiosity, as Vladimir Nabokov has noted, is the purest form. I was scheduled to be on a panel with Alec Tyruil, my intellectual rival and personal archnemesis, and may have become too heated in my remarks beforehand. Complaints were made--Tyruil being, in the tradition of all academics, simultaneously bellicose and extremely prone to personal offense--and afterward, I was called in for a conference with the department head. "Angela," said Dr. Fitzwilliams, on the day of my ejection from the program. "Come in, come in." He always seemed surprised to see me, though he'd been the one to schedule this meeting--it's more accurate to say I'd been summoned to it, via a stern yet cryptic email from his administrative assistant. "Have a seat," said Fitzwilliams, gesturing ambiguously toward two roughly equidistant chairs. I spent some anxious moments trying to figure out which one he meant. "Just allow me a moment to finish up here." He clicked three buttons on his computer in quick succession; I had the distinct impression he was finishing a game of Snood. "Now," said Fitzwilliams, wheeling around and fixing me with his stricken gaze. "How are you, Angela? I mean, how are you really?" He spoke as though he was a dear friend from whom I'd been concealing the true extent of my devastation. "I've been better," I said. "Yes," he said, and shook his head. "I was extremely sorry to hear about Peter." I knew he was sorry. He had told me so already. Everyone had told me, over and over, so much and so often that after a while I began saying that I was sorry right back. Which I was, of course, obviously. This time I just said, "Thank you." "Your daughter? She's--" I could tell he was about to say "well." "She's--I mean, how is she?" "Not great!" I said. "To be absolutely honest with you." "No. Of course. Of course not." I wondered if Dr. Fitzwilliams had kids, I mean really had kids. He did have pictures of two teenagers on his desk, but this was standard dean-of-department office decor and didn't necessarily mean anything. "Your daughter must want her mother in a time like this," Fitzwilliams said. "She wants her father ," I said. As she reminded me nightly. "Yes," said Fitzwilliams. "Well." One could sense his fingers wishing to click upon something. The Snood again, most likely. After a pause, he said, "I've been in consultation with Dr. Cartwright." "Oh?" I said politely. Dr. Cartwright was supposed to be my mentor in navigating the perilous pre-dissertation labyrinth. Or my minotaur, as I more often thought of him. "He and I are in agreement." "Oh, yes?" "We think that you should take a leave." "What?" I said, sitting back in my chair. "What?" It seemed for a moment that I actually couldn't hear him; I had a sinus infection, on top of everything else. "A leave, Angela," he said. "You need to take one." I pretended for a moment to think about why this could be. "Oh, because of the conference ?" I said. "Because I really don't think that merits--" "We realize you've been through a lot." He was sounding very firm now. "Most people in your position would have taken some time off already." What people are those? I wanted to ask. Were there other people around here who'd lost their thirty-one-year-old husbands eight weeks ago and hadn't missed a single class or assignment since? Who were currently, during this very meeting, still wearing an industrial-sized adult diaper, as the last remnants of a child--of a husband, of a life--bled slowly into the cotton? If so, I'd certainly like to meet those people! I bet we'd have a lot to talk about! Instead, I said, "I see." "It's been an awkward fit here in some ways, Angela. I know your interests don't entirely align with the focus of the program--" "I can realign them." Fitzwilliams smiled, which frightened me obscurely. "Well, you'll have time to do just that while you're on leave," he said. "Think about your dissertation. Think about what really excites you." He leaned forward, and I could see the thinning hair on the very top of his head. I wonder if he didn't know about it, or if he had the kind of wife who told him. "But mostly, Angela? Take a rest. A real rest. OK?" I turned one ear toward him, then the other, in case this was all a matter of aural mechanics. I realize now it must have appeared as though I was shaking my head. "But my loans," I said weakly. "We'll get you a deferment," he said, looking relieved to be fielding such a concrete objection. He leaned back, then frowned into my file, which I saw had been open on his lap all along. "The stipend, though, is another matter," he said. "You'll probably need to get a job." [sb] I have lately been revisiting conceptual semantics. A tiresome compromise, I used to think--this idea of a few crude hardwired concepts (space and substance, causation and agency) giving rise to all we name and know. A vector for mealymouthed intellectualism and craven commercial ambition, the kind of pop-philosophy difference splitting that appeals to its audience only because it makes the real thinking look so hard. But I am reexamining my assumptions these days--in this regard, at least, I am reformed! I am even reading some Pinker--I was surprised, though not all that surprised, to find him in the library here. Causality, he says, is assessed not only by pondering what would happen if things were otherwise. It is also about sensing an impetus that is transferred from an agent with a tendency toward motion to a weaker entity that would rather stay put. In this conception of causality, I am the passive object. It was the agency of Dr. Fitzwilliams acting upon my weaker self--and, if we zoom out farther, the devious treachery of one Alec Q. Tyruil acting upon Fitzwilliams! Because Fitzwilliams, I am certain, is one of those people who constitutionally prefers to stay put. And if he had, I might still be ensconced at Harvard--writing my heretical papers, alienating my excitable colleagues, doing nothing of consequence or anything of harm. I expect I'm supposed to say here that I wish, I wish so desperately, that it were so. Let us change the subject. [sb] The evening of my dismissal, I wept into my mother's lap--quietly, I hoped, since Josephine was sleeping. I'd been doing this a lot lately, and I sensed there was a small part of my mother that enjoyed having me back in her arms, even if she was sorry about the circumstances. She'd liked Peter. We both had. Years ago, my mother had told me she'd often thought about how there was a last time you rocked your child, and you never got to know when it was. I thought about never rocking JoJo again--or rocking her again as an adult, which was worse--and began to cry harder. My mother turned up the music--to drown me out, I suppose. "The First Noel" was playing. Did I mention it was almost Christmas? Well, it was! It was also only twelve weeks after September 11. This was not a personal tragedy, no, but the hijackers did depart from Logan airport. Nobody ever talks about that. "It's OK," my mother told me. Which is a great thing to say to someone as long as you never define what "it" is. Unclear antecedents being the fundamental basis of all compassion. "What?" I said pitifully. "I still can't hear." "I know," she said, and cupped my head until I wriggled away from her like a toddler. I went to the window. On the street below, a pack of kids in Pats gear and beanies were towing a little sled along the sidewalk. I couldn't for the life of me think where they might be going. "I was talking to Alan the other day," my mother said from behind me. "Uh-huh." My mother talked to Alan every day. My mother was a social worker--she'd spent her life in the prisons, trying to minister to the irredeemable. Alan was her oldest friend, a veteran of some of the same clinics. "He knows about an opening," she said. "There's a sort of lab job." "A lab?" I said. "Well, more like a center." I pressed my finger against the window. Before me, frost made delicate arborescent patterns on the glass. "What sort of job?" I asked. It was an experimental therapy, my mother told me, invented by speech pathologists. Facilitated communication, it was called. It involved a typewriter, somehow--my mother didn't know all the details--and was supposed to help nonverbal patients with motor impairments. People with cerebral palsy, profound autism accompanied by psychomotor problems, that sort of thing. The therapy was new and somewhat controversial, but there'd apparently been some promising results, which the lab was hoping to re-create. I turned around. "Controversial how?" I asked. "I don't know exactly." My mother waved her hands as though batting away a mosquito--a gesture she often made when I spoke in those days. "I guess they don't completely know if it works yet. Or how well." I told her this wasn't exactly my line of experience. But the job paid squat, my mother noted cheerfully, and there weren't exactly a lot of people with master's degrees in linguistics running around looking for lab work. (Or Center work, I supposed, whatever that was.) Also Alan knew the director; he could put in a good word. I had the distinct impression he had done so already. "This therapy sounds like a Ouija board," I might have objected then. "It sounds like it might be made up entirely!" This is what people often say, once they've heard my story and have decided to be skeptics. But in other contexts, most people are agnostic, maybe a bit intrigued. This was my reaction, too--though in fact, I had more reason than most to be dubious. I was still trying to be a linguistic determinist back then. Linguistic determinism posits that language is the essential foundation of consciousness, the only mechanism by which human cognition can occur. In a way, this was a grim vision to commit to--our native language is the language of thought, that's it, the end--and entirely at odds with the optimistic premise of this therapy: if thinking was language, the linguistic determinist would argue, then there was nothing to discover within people who didn't have it already. Maybe it was the bleakness of this worldview that made the gig seem appealing--maybe I was starting to suspect, even then, that there was a whole lot more to the story. But mostly, of course, I was desperate. And then, finally, very relieved. I went to JoJo's room, half hoping she'd wake so I could rock her back to sleep. She did not. This was good. She'd loved her father terribly; half the time she woke up crying. A four-year-old's grief is a savage thing. I didn't truly think she'd ever get over it, though I planned to spend my entire life telling her she would. Armenian has a word, karot , for a strong sense of missing someone: there isn't really a counterpart in English. But then--I might have a job. I whispered this into the room like a benediction. A job. A job that might help people, and, at the least, would not hurt them. This was something. This was a lot. It was such better luck than I'd had in so long, that it was almost hard to believe it could be true. Excerpted from The Last Language: A Novel by Jennifer duBois All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
