iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第2部分

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　my　science　requirement　as　a　freshman　like　everyone　else。　A　pair　of　letters　sits　on　the　coffee　table　in　front　of　me；　each　containing　a　vision　of　what　I　could　be　doing　next　year。　The　night　of　Good　Friday　has　fallen；　cold　April　in　Princeton；　New　Jersey；　and　with　only　a　month　of　college　left　I'm　no　different　from　anyone　else　in　the　class　of　1999：　I'm　having　trouble　getting　my　mind　off　the　future。
　Charlie　is　sitting　on　the　floor　by　the　cube　refrigerator；　playing　with　the　Magnetic　Shakespeare　someone　left　in　our　room　last　week。　The　Fitzgerald　novel　he's　supposed　to　be　reading　for　his　final　paper　in　English　151w　is　spread　open　on　the　floor　with　its　spine　broken；　like　a　butterfly　somebody　stepped　on；　and　he's　forming　and　re…forming　sentences　from　magnets　with　Shakespearean　words　on　them。　If　you　ask　him　why　he's　not　reading　Fitzgerald；　he'll　grunt　and　say　there's　no　point。　As　far　as　he's　concerned；　literature　is　just　an　educated　man's　shell　game；　three…card　monte　for　the　college　crowd：　what　you　see　is　never　what　you　get。　For　a　science…minded　guy　like　Charlie；　that's　the　height　of　perversity。　He's　headed　for　medical　school　in　the　fall；　but　the　rest　of　us　are　still　hearing　about　the　C…plus　he　found　on　his　English　midterm　in　March。
　Gil　glances　over　at　us　and　smiles。　He's　been　pretending　to　study　for　an　economics　exam；　but　Breakfast　at　Tiffany's　is　on；　and　Gil　has　a　thing　for　old　films；　especially　ones　with　Audrey　Hepburn。　His　advice　to　Charlie　was　simple：　if　you　don't　want　to　read　the　book；　then　rent　the　movie。　They'll　never　know。　He's　probably　right；　but　Charlie　sees　something　dishonest　in　that；　and　anyway　it　would　prevent　him　from　plaining　about　what　a　scam　literature　is；　so　instead　of　Daisy　Buchanan　we're　watching　Holly　Golightly　yet　again。
　I　reach　down　and　rearrange　some　of　Charlie's　words　until　the　sentence　at　the　top　of　the　fridge　says　to　fail　or　not　to　fail：　that　is　the　question。　Charlie　raises　his　head　to　give　me　a　disapproving　look。　Sitting　down；　he's　almost　as　tall　as　I　am　on　the　couch。　When　we　stand　next　to　each　other　he　looks　like　Othello　on　steroids；　a　two…hundred…and…fifteen…pound　black　man　who　scrapes　the　ceilings　at　six…and…a…half　feet。　By　contrast　I'm　five…foot…seven　in　shoes。　Charlie　likes　to　call　us　Red　Giant　and　White　Dwarf；　because　a　red　giant　is　a　star　that's　unusually　large　and　bright；　while　a　white　dwarf　is　small　and　dense　and　dull。　I　have　to　remind　him　that　Napoleon　was　only　five…foot…two；　even　if　Paul　is　right　that　when　you　convert　French　feet　to　English；　the　emperor　was　actually　taller。
　Paul　is　the　only　one　of　us　who　isn't　in　the　room　now。　He　disappeared　earlier　in　the　day；　and　hasn't　been　seen　since。　Things　between　him　and　me　have　been　rocky　for　the　past　month；　and　with　all　the　academic　pressure　on　him　lately；　he's　chosen　to　do　most　of　his　studying　at　Ivy；　the　eating　club　where　he　and　Gil　are　members。　It's　his　senior　thesis　he's　working　on；　the　paper　all　Princeton　undergrads　must　write　in　order　to　graduate。　Charlie；　Gil；　and　I　would　be　doing　the　same　ourselves；　except　that　our　departmental　deadlines　have　already　e　and　gone。　Charlie　identified　a　new　protein　interaction　in　certain　neuronal　signaling　pathways；　Gil　managed　something　on　the　ramifications　of　a　flat　tax。　I　pasted　mine　together　at　the　last　minute　between　applications　and　interviews；　and　I'm　sure　Frankenstein　scholarship　will　forever　be　the　same。
　The　senior　thesis　is　an　institution　that　almost　everyone　despises。　Alumni　talk　about　their　theses　wistfully；　as　if　they　can't　remember　anything　more　enjoyable　than　writing　one…hundred…page　research　papers　while　taking　classes　and　choosing　their　professional　futures。　In　reality；　a　senior　thesis　is　a　miserable；　spine…breaking　thing　to　write。　It's　an　introduction　to　adult　life；　a　sociology　professor　told　Charlie　and　me　once；　in　that　annoying　way　professors　have　of　lecturing　after　the　lecture　is　over：　it's　about　shouldering　something　so　big；　you　can't　get　out　from　under　it。　It's　called　responsibility；　he　said。　Try　it　on　for　size。　Never　mind　that　the　only　thing　he　was　trying　on　for　size　was　a　pretty　thesis　advisee　named　Kim　Silverman。　It　was　all　about　responsibility。　I'd　have　to　agree　with　what　Charlie　said　at　the　time。　If　Kim　Silverman　is　the　sort　of　thing　adults　can't　get　out　from　under；　then　sign　me　up。　Otherwise；　I'll　take　my　chances　being　young。
　Paul　is　the　last　of　us　to　finish　his　thesis；　and　there's　no　question　that　his　will　be　the　best　of　the　bunch。　In　fact；　his　may　be　the　best　of　our　entire　graduating　class；　in　the　history　department　or　any　other。　The　magic　of　Paul's　intelligence　is　that　he　has　more　patience　than　anyone　I've　ever　met；　and　with　it　he　simply　wears　problems　down。　To　count　a　hundred　million　stars；　he　told　me　once；　at　the　rate　of　one　per　second；　sounds　like　a　job　that　no　one　could　possibly　plete　in　a　lifetime。　In　reality；　it　would　only　take　three　years。　The　key　is　focus；　a　willingness　not　to　be　distracted。　And　that　is　Paul's　gift：　an　intuition　of　just　how　much　a　person　can　do　slowly。
　Maybe　that's　why　everyone　has　such　high　expectations　for　his　thesis…they　know　how　many　stars　he　could　count　in　three　years；　but　he's　been　working　on　his　thesis　for　almost　four。　While　the　average　student　es　up　with　a　research　topic　in　the　fall　of　senior　year　and　finishes　it　by　the　next　spring；　Paul　has　been　struggling　with　his　since　freshman　year。　Just　a　few　months　into　our　first　fall　semester；　he　decided　to　focus　on　a　rare　Renaissance　text　entitled　Hypnerotomachia　Poliphili；　a　labyrinthine　name　I　can　pronounce　only　because　my　father　spent　most　of　his　career　as　a　Renaissance　historian　studying　it。　Three　and　a　half　years　later；　and　barely　twenty…four　hours　from　his　deadline；　Paul　has　enough　material　to　make　even　the　most　discriminating　graduate　programs　salivate。
　The　problem　is；　he　thinks　I　ought　to　be　enjoying　the　fanfare　too。　We　worked　on　the　book　together　for　a　few　months　during　the　winter；　and　made　good　progress　as　a　team。　Only　then　did　I　understand　something　my　mother　used　to　say：　that　men　in　our　family　had　a　tendency　to　fall　for　certain　books　about　as　hard　as　they　fell　for　certain　women。　The　Hypnerotomachia　may　never　have　had　much　outward　charm；　but　it　has　an　ugly　woman's　wiles；　the　slow　addictive　tug　of　inner　mystery。　When　I　caught　myself　slipping　into　it　the　same　way　my　father　had；　I　managed　to　pull　myself　out　and　throw　in　the　towel　before　it　could　ruin　my　relationship　with　a　girlfriend　who　deserved　better。　Since　then；　things　between　Paul　and　me　haven't　been　the　same。　A　graduate　student　he　knows；　Bill　Stein；　has　helped　with　his　research　since　I　begged　off。　Now；　as　his　thesis　deadline　approaches；　Paul　has　bee　strangely　guarded。　He's　usually　much　more　forthing　about　his　work；　but　over　the　past　week　he's　withdrawn　not　only　from　me　but　from　Charlie　and　Gil　too；　refusing　to　speak　a　word　of　his　research　to　anyone。
　〃So；　which　way　are　you　leaning；　Tom？〃　Gil　asks。
　Charlie　glances　up　from　the　fridge。　〃Yeah；〃　he　says；　〃we're　all　on　tenterhooks。〃
　Gil　and　I　groan。　Tenterhooks　is　one　of　the　words　Charlie　missed　on　his　midterm。　He　attributed　it　to　Moby…Dick　instead　of　Tobias　Smollett's　Adventures　of　Roderick　Random　on　the　grounds　that　it　sounded　more　like　a　kind　of　fishing　lure　than　a　word　for　suspense。　Now　he　won't　let　it　go。
　〃Get　over　it；〃　Gil　says。
　〃Name　me　one　doctor　who　knows　what　a　tenterhook　is；〃　Charlie　says。
　Before　either　of　us　can　answer；　a　rustling　sound　es　from　inside　the　bedroom　I　share　with　Paul。　Suddenly；　standing　before　us　at　the　door；　wearing　only　boxers　and　a　T…shirt；　is　Paul　himself。
　〃Just　one？〃　he　asks；　rubbing　his　eyes。　〃Tobias　Smollett。　He　was　a　surgeon。〃
　Charlie　glances　back　at　the　magnets。　〃Figures。〃
　Gil　chuckles；　but　says　nothing。
　〃We　thought　you　went　to　Ivy；〃　Charlie　says；　when　the　pause　bees　noticeable。
　Paul　shakes　his　head；　backtracking　into　his　room　to　pick　up　his　notebook。　His　straw…colored　hair　is　pressed　flat　on　one　side；　and　there　are　pillow　creases　on　his　face。　〃Not　enough　privacy；〃　he　says。　〃I've　been　working　in　my　bunk　again。　Fell　asleep。〃
　He's　hardly　gotten　a　wink　in　two　nights；　maybe　more。　Paul's　advisor；　Dr。　Vincent　Taft；　has　pressed　him　to　produce　more　and　more　documentation　every　week…and　unlike　most　advisors；　who　are　happy　to　let　s