If I was a boy at Oxford, I would probably wear glasses. I would dress well and have an accent that made hesitation sound like careful thought. My clothes would fit. I would be able to enter a room without immediately wondering how I had entered it.
I would like the confidence most. Someone could mention a book and I could say I hadn’t read it without feeling that my entire education was about to be investigated. I could ask a question because I wanted the answer. If I said something foolish, I might allow the conversation to continue without spending the rest of it preparing my defense.
In the afternoons, I would sit outside with a cigarette and a book. I would look rather sophisticated, which is part of the appeal and seems pointless to deny. But eventually I would become interested enough in what I was reading to forget how I looked.
I would like that.
I would read without constantly checking whether I was becoming better at it, whether the book was difficult enough, whether I was retaining something I could use later. I would be allowed to enjoy a sentence without extracting a small qualification from it. Some books would take me weeks. Some would keep me up.
The boy I imagine has an enviable willingness to spend an afternoon on something he likes. He does not need the afternoon to explain itself.
I have given him good clothes, an accent, an expensive education, and a cigarette, which is a considerable amount of preparation for allowing a person to sit down and read.
Still, I can picture him. He has forgotten the cigarette. Something has happened in the book.
