Small Talk

I'm so worn out by my thoughts that I can't write them down, in spite of a bottle of beer I went out to buy at Blancheron's.

Stendhal
June 10, 1804
Diary entry

Six or so weeks ago, I talked with an elder colleague. I have known her for four years, but it was the first time she talked to me about her students. She glowed. You felt her passion as she . She showed no signs that she knew what she exuded. But if I would have that sheer quality after two decades on the job, then I'm on the right track.

Something like that from another woman yesterday. It was a pleasure just to look at her speak.

Last night, I faced a related problem when I was tasked to explain my story. Both my "talk" and "passion" already lay bare on the page. What was left to say? I do hope the spiel that ensued did not bore them.