"Illinois?" I asked innocently.

"No, Egypt."

That brought the conversation to a halt for a few minutes, but we got along very well. I asked her to the Holy Cross game and she accepted with alacrity.

Another triumph. The other guys I knew at the mixer ended up getting drunk in the bushes. I, on the other hand, had met a girl, and made a date. A great poet and a lover as well.

A week later, we went to the game, which was an unmitigated disaster. She hated football, she hated me, I hated her. Words fail to express exactly how badly it all worked out. The whole episode, when I think of it, leaves many unanswered questions in my mind: What did she look like? Why did she come? Why did I keep calling her for three months when she left to go to Wellesley as soon as the football game ended? What was going on there, anyway?

October: Somehow, in the face of caring three meals at the Freshman Union, my tokens of success seemed to be willing. I didn't quite understand what about the scene there affected me so badly, but my worst moments came at the moment after I had finished shoveling down the food and sat back to ash my cigarette on my greasy plate. Around me was a continued clank, clank, clank of silverware and plates, a babble of voices. People leapt about, did tricks with their silverware, tablehopped, shouted, passed joints under the table; I began to panic. I asked myself: Who are all these people? What are they doing?

Perhaps this hatred, this tightening of my stomach whenever mealtime at the old Union rolled around began when I heard the other members of my class hitting their water glasses with knives in appreciation of the entrance of a group of girls. I-certainly no less horny than a lot of the clinkers-was very confused at this. It seemed vindictive-as if those who were clinking resented bitterly the fact that some others were eating with girls-and wanted to get at both of them, make them suffer. This is a little frightening, because it underscores the cutthroat competitiveness ofthis place-and also because I found myself responding to it.

After all, I had my magic token: was a budding poet of recognized-by Harvard of course-merit. Why was I not one of those being clinked at, why did I not walk in with a girl to serve as another token of the fact that I had Harvard under control?

After all, I did, didn't I? Didn't I?

I asked myself: Who are all those people?

Three days a week, I leapt out of bed at 8:30 to drag myself (oh mortal folly) to Russian class. Saturday was one of the days. Three weeks before when I signed my study card, such considerations seemed ridiculous. Friends would caution me against such stupidity; they cautioned that a Saturday class would drive me up the wall. I smiled at such faintheartedness with lofty compassion. After all, one can't let paltry matters of scheduling stand in the way of becoming a truly educated man, can one? If Harvard felt it necessary to schedule Slavic A at 9 a.m. Tues., Thurs., Sat., then one would simply have to adapt to it.

Three weeks later, I cursed my stupidity. I might have had a chance in Russian if I had not fallen one lesson (Saturday's of course) behind every week. By late October I was a week and a half behind. Faithfully I went to every meeting, but I could never do the homework on Friday night. The students in class talked about grammatical points which were completely beyond my comprehension. And at 9 in the morning, I had no trouble nodding off to sleep rather quickly.

On Saturdays, I rushed back to Straus after the class, fell on the bed, and went to sleep at once. Fifteen minutes later, I was usually awakened by the Harvard band on its way to the Stadium, Jolted almost physically out of bed by "Ten Thousand Men of Harvard." The annoyance was over come by the fitness of it, Gaudeamus Igitur, and all that.

On Mon., Wed., at 11 I went to Soc Sci 11 ("Introduction to East Asian Civilization"). I had picked out this course at home, gloated over it at night like a glutton over chocolate. Here, I thought, was the firing line of knowledge. Reischauer and Fairbank, names which my high school history had spoken with awe. At first, I spent hours doing the reading, making notes on the reading, copying notes on lecture. But gradually it dawned on me that it made no difference at all to anyone whether I had done the reading or not: no one would get angry, or mark me down, or ask me questions. Gadzooks! What freedom! Why bother to read it?

So I stopped. And quite soon the lectures stopped having any connection. And quite soon I stopped taking notes and began writing "boring boring boring boring" in my notebook. The only reason I kept going to the class is that I liked to stare at a girl who sat in front of me.