As I entered the English department with a full of resolution, she was talking to her colleague in an obviously good spirit, that made me infuriated. I uttered sharply, “Excuse me, may I talk to you? It’s urgent.”
My unanticipated reappearance on the scene spooked at her morbidly, as if she saw apparition before her eyes. She fidgeted, “Why are you coming back? I thought we are quits… please sit down here….”
I sat on the chair agitatedly and stated firmly, “I just let you know that I’ve talked to the principal. And most importantly, he’s asked me to talk to you about the situation all over again.”
Her face became pale, and she muttered, “Why did you do that? You’ve consented to the arrangement. And you said you don’t care about the grade.”
“I don’t care about the stupid grade. But I do really care of my hero. You simply can’t talk about Henry Miller like that. Your opinion of him makes me embarrassed. You’ve never read his books clearly, for if you’d had, you would’ve never blabbed such a shockingly unintelligent comment. He was the man, who always sang his songs in his own tune at the top of his lungs in his whole lifetime. Shame on you!”
“What on earth are you talking about, Shogo? What do you want from me?” she was totally bewildered by my incensed tone.
“You should know, when he published his first book, Tropic of Cancer, in France, America rejected his book. What’s more, his books had been burned in his own country for over thirty years. Meanwhile, his books had become international best seller in France, Japan, etc. Do you know why his books were burned in his own country?”
She glared at my eyes and retorted, twitching on the corner of her left mouth, “You tell me.”