I've been reading (and enjoying, maybe a little too much) a copy of Arthur Schlesinger's Journals 1952-2000 I picked up over the weekend. A couple days ago, I came across a passage from the end of 1993 that hit a little too close to home, from when Schlesinger wound down his teaching career:
Yesterday they held a party at the Graduate Center to mark my retirement. A former student...spoke, portraying me, I fear overgenerously, as a teacher noted for his solicitude toward his students. In fact, I have always felt guiltily that I was not doing enough....
...I have been a conscientious teacher and probably a pretty good one, but teaching has never fulfilled an organic need; indeed, I have always felt to be something of an impostor, about to be found out and exposed. Real teachers, like Henry Commager, could not bear to stop teaching. I am only puzzled why I waited so long. (Answer: I could not figure out any other way to retain an office, a secretary and room for a thousand or more books. The invention of the word processor reduces the need for a secretary; I do all my serious work at home anyway; but the book problem remains.)
...I have been a conscientious teacher and probably a pretty good one, but teaching has never fulfilled an organic need; indeed, I have always felt to be something of an impostor, about to be found out and exposed. Real teachers, like Henry Commager, could not bear to stop teaching. I am only puzzled why I waited so long. (Answer: I could not figure out any other way to retain an office, a secretary and room for a thousand or more books. The invention of the word processor reduces the need for a secretary; I do all my serious work at home anyway; but the book problem remains.)
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