The Professor and the Young Man

       A young man came to Professor Litmore’s office one afternoon, asking if he would read one of his stories. It was a very short story—less than a page—and, upon reading it, Professor Litmore could see that the young man had raw talent, but lacked any real style or depth. When he was done reading the story, he turned to the young man, who was waiting eagerly for his opinion. “What is your intention with writing?” Professor Litmore asked.

The young man froze. “My intention?” he said. “My intention is to conquer the world.”

“Then you are in the wrong business,” the professor said. “You should be a politician, if that is your intention. A writer writes because he has to write. He has no other intention than that.”

“Excuse me, professor,” said the young man. “But I am going to say something which might offend you.” He looked at the professor as if for reassurance. The professor sat looking at him without changing his expression. “That,” said the young man, “is complete and utter bullshit.”

The professor’s eyes shot wide open, and his jaw nearly dropped.

“If a writer’s only intention is to write, then what is art? What is the purpose of art? I’d say all art has a purpose—to say something that has never been said before. And who are you, or anyone else for that matter, to say that that thing that has never been said before cannot completely change the world? And therefore, who’s to say that a writer cannot conquer the world with his pen? Is it so hard to fathom that a writer could draw so many followers—committed followers who would serve him to whatever end he so desired—that his ideas might take over the world? Have you not heard of a man named Marx? Or even Tolstoy? Dickens? These writers didn’t simply write for the sake of writing. They wrote so that the world would follow them, so that movements could be started that would change the world. I have to say, professor, your outlook on writing is very cynical. Could that be because your own writing has failed to accomplish what you initially felt that it would?”

The professor stared at him, as if in disbelief.

“I mean,” continued the young man. “Look where you are—in this tiny, cramped office at a mediocre university, teaching writing to college students. Is that any way to get a hold on the world?”

The professor sat in silence for a time. He was obviously struggling to hold back a great deal of wrath, and the young man gloated over this, which was apparent from the sly smile that was barely detectable on his face. The professor looked the young man in the eye, and spoke.

“Yes,” he said. “It is. It’s a perfectly fine way to get a hold on the world. Just as fine as any other way, whether it be Marx’s way, or Tolstoy’s, or your own. I think you will find, young man, that the older you get, the less it will matter what your status is in society, and the more it will matter what you do with it. From reading your writing, I can see that you have some talent, but talent will only get you so far. You are going to be faced with tremendous challenges in your life—not the least of which will result from your delusions of grandeur regarding your writing—and you will be forced to face those challenges alone. No one, least of all me, cares much about you or your talents at this point, and it will remain that way for as long as you consider those talents to be in any way special or unique. You criticize my station because you fear that one day it will be your own, or even something which you may never be able to attain. You will argue that you do not wish to attain it, that you are destined for something more. But even if you become a great writer—like Marx, or Tolstoy—there is no guarantee that the world will give a damn. My advice to you, young man, is to learn humility first, and writing second.”

The professor handed the young man the paper on which the story had been written. The young man took it.

“Now,” said the professor. “Get out of my office.”

The young man smiled, stood up, and walked out. When he left, the professor leaned back in his chair. Deep down, he knew that he had once been just like this young man—full of pride, full of delusions—and he wondered to himself how the young man would respond to his words. Would he ignore the part about humility and go home and try to prove to himself and the world that he was truly a great writer? He hoped that he would.