The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader pc .TXT) 📕
Description
The Plastic Age can be read as an exposé on the moral failings of undergraduates in Jazz Age New England, as described through the four-year experience of a young man at the fictional Sanford College. Students enroll at Sanford to “acquire culture,” and do so at an age when they are “plastic” in the sense that they are changeable and meant to be transformed by the experience.
But, not all of the lessons of a college education are in the curriculum. To a student reader of the 1920s, Marks’ novel would have looked more like a moral tale, critique, and guide to navigating the challenges, pitfalls, and possibilities of higher education. Marks was an English instructor at Brown University at the time of publication but also had experience teaching at MIT and Dartmouth from which to draw his descriptions of campus life.
The book was popular, the second best selling novel of 1924. It inspired two motion pictures. But it was also controversial. The novel was banned in Boston and Marks was removed from his teaching position at Brown the next year. College administrators saw the novel’s setting as a thinly-veiled version of their own school and the novel’s portrayal of college life hit too close to home.
A Sanford English instructor seems to convey the author’s view when he says: “Some day, perhaps, our administrative officers will be true educators; … our faculties will be wise men really fitted to teach; … our students will be really students, eager to learn, honest searchers after beauty and truth.”
But what Marks sees instead are uninspired teaching and advising, superficial learning, pervasive smoking, prohibition-era drinking, vice, gambling, billiards, institutionalized hazing, excessive conformity, and a campus life that molds its students into less serious people. The author seeks elevation but sees regression.
Some of the norms and expectations of the 1920s may seem dated to the modern reader, but important themes endure. Marks went on to write 19 additional books and late in his career, returned to teaching literature at the University of Connecticut.
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- Author: Percy Marks
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Henley picked up three themes. Then he turned his keen eyes on Hugh. “I’ve already read these. Lazy cuss, aren’t you?” he asked amiably.
Hugh flushed. “I—I suppose so.”
“You know that you are; no supposing to it.” He slapped the desk lightly with the themes. “First drafts, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.” Hugh felt his cheeks getting warmer.
Henley smiled. “Thanks for not lying. If you had lied, this conference would have ended right now. Oh, I wouldn’t have told you that I thought you were lying; I would simply have made a few polite but entirely insincere comments about your work and let you go. Now I am going to talk to you frankly and honestly.”
“I wish you would,” Hugh murmured, but he wasn’t at all sure that he wished anything of the sort.
Henley knocked the ashes out of his pipe into a metal tray, refilled it, lighted it, and then puffed meditatively, gazing at Hugh with kind but speculative eyes.
“I think you have ability,” he began slowly. “You evidently write with great fluency and considerable accuracy, and I can find poetic touches here and there that please me. But you are careless, abominably careless, lazy. Whatever virtues there are in your themes come from a natural gift, not from any effort you made to say the thing in the best way. Now, I’m not going to spend any time discussing these themes in detail; they aren’t worth it.”
He pointed his pipe at Hugh. “The point is exactly this,” he said sternly. “I’ll never spend any time discussing your themes so long as you turn in hasty, shoddy work. I can see right now that you can get a C in this course without trying. If that’s all you want, all right, I’ll give it to you—and let it go at that. The Lord knows that I have enough to do without wasting time on lazy youngsters who haven’t sense enough to develop their gifts. If you continue to turn in themes like these, I’ll give you C’s or D’s on them and let you dig your own shallow grave by yourself. But If you want to try to write as well as you can, I’ll give you all the help in my power. Not one minute can you have so long as you don’t try, but you can have hours if you do try. Furthermore, you will find writing a pleasure if you write as well as you can, but you won’t get any sport just scribbling off themes because you have to.”
He paused to toss the three themes across the desk to Hugh, who was watching him with astonishment. No instructor had ever talked to him that way before.
“You can rewrite these themes if you want to,” Henley went on. “I haven’t graded them, and I’ll reserve the grades for the rewritten themes; and if I find that you have made a real effort, I’ll discuss them in detail with you. What do you say?”
“I’d like to rewrite them,” Hugh said softly. “I know they are rotten.”
“No, they aren’t rotten. I’ve got dozens that are worse. That isn’t the point. They aren’t nearly so good as you can make them, and only your best work is acceptable to me. Now show me what you can do with them, and then we’ll tear them to shreds in regular fashion.” He turned to his desk and smiled at Hugh, who, understanding that the conference was over, stood up and reached for the themes. “I’ll be interested in seeing what you can do with those,” Henley concluded. “Every one of them has a good idea. Go to it—and get them back in a week.”
“Yes, sir. Thanks very much.”
“Right-o. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, sir,” and Hugh left the office determined to rewrite those themes so that “they’d knock Jimmie Henley’s eye out.” They didn’t do exactly that, but they did interest him, and he spent an hour and a half discussing them with Hugh.
That was merely the first of a series of long conferences. Sometimes Henley and Hugh discussed writing, but often they talked about other subjects, not as instructor and student but as two men who respected each other’s mind. Before the term was out Henley had invited Hugh to his home for dinner and to meet Mrs. Henley. Hugh was enormously flattered and, for some reason, stimulated to do better work. He found his talks with Henley really exciting, and he expressed his opinions to him as freely and almost as positively as he did to his classmates. He told his friends that Jimmie Henley was human, not like most profs. And he worked at his writing as he had never worked at anything, running excepted, since he had been in college.
The students never knew what to expect from Henley in the classroom. Sometimes he read themes and criticized them; sometimes he discussed books that he had been reading; sometimes he read poetry, not because contemporary poetry was part of the course but because he happened to feel like reading it that morning; sometimes he discoursed on the art of writing; and sometimes he talked about anything that happened to be occupying his mind. He made his classroom an open forum, and the students felt free to interrupt him at any time and to disagree with him. Usually they did disagree with him and afterward wrote violent themes to prove that he was wrong. That was exactly what Henley wanted them to do, and the more he could stir them up the better satisfied he was.
One morning, however, he talked without interruption. He didn’t want to be interrupted, and the boys were so taken back by his statements that they could find no words to say anything.
The bell rang. Henley called the roll, stuck his class-book into his coat pocket, placed his watch on the desk; then leaned back and looked the class over.
“Your themes are making me sick,” he began, “nauseated. I have a fairly strong stomach, but there is just so much
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