The Professor of Desire by Philip Roth Page B

“I know,” replies the schoolmaster, silently swishing his cane.
    After he leaves, Helen says, “Well, there’s no need to ask what you thought of him, is there?” “It’s as you said: he adores you.” “Really, just what has empowered you to sit in judgment of other people’s passions? Haven’t you heard? It’s a wide, wide world; room for everybody to do whatever he likes. Even you once did what you liked, David. Or so the legend goes.” “I sit in judgment of nothing. What I sit in judgment of, you wouldn’t believe.” “Ah, yourself. Hardest on yourself. Momentarily I forgot.” “I sat, Helen, and I listened and I don’t remember saying anything about the passions or preferences or private parts of anybody from here to Nepal.” “Donald Garland is probably the kindest man alive.” “Fine with me.” “He was always there when I needed someone. There were weeks when I went to live in his house. He protected me from some terrible people.” Why didn’t you just protect yourself by staying away from them? “Good,” I say; “you were lucky and that was great.” “He likes to gossip and to tell tales, and of course he got a little maudlin tonight—look what he’s just been through. But he happens to know what people are, just how much and just how little—and he is devoted to his friends, even the fools. The loyalty of those kind of men is quite wonderful, and not to be disparaged by anyone. And don’t you be misled. When he is feeling himself he can be like iron. He can be unmovable, and marvelous.” “I am sure he was a wonderful friend to you.” “He still is!” “Look, what are you trying to tell me? I don’t always get the gist of things these days. Rumor has it my students are going to give me the final exam, to see if they’ve been able to get anything through my skull. What are we talking about now?” “About the fact that I am still a person of consequence to quite a few people, even if to you and the learned professors and their peppy, dowdy little wives I am beneath contempt. It’s true I’m not clever enough to bake banana bread and carrot bread and raise my own bean sprouts and ‘audit’ seminars and ‘head up’ committees to outlaw war for all time, but people still look at me, David, wherever I go. I could have married the kind of men who run the world! I wouldn’t have had to look far, either. I hate to have to say such a vulgar, trashy thing about myself, but it’s what you’re reduced to saying to someone who finds you repulsive.” “I don’t find you repulsive. I’m still awestruck that you chose me over the president of ITT. How can someone unable even to finish a little pamphlet on Anton Chekhov feel anything but gratitude to be living with the runner-up for Queen of Tibet? I’m honored to have been chosen to be your hair shirt.” “It’s debatable who is the hair shirt around here. I am repugnant to you, Donald is repugnant to you—” “Helen, I neither liked the man nor disliked the man. I did my level fucking best. Look, my best friend as long ago as college was practically the only queer there. I had a queer for a friend in 1950—before they even existed! I didn’t know what one was, but I had one. I don’t care who wears whose dress—oh, fuck it, forget it, I quit.”
    Then on a Saturday morning late in the spring, just as I have sat down at my desk to begin marking exams, I hear the front door of our apartment open and shut—and finally the dissolution of this hopeless misalliance has begun. Helen is gone. Several days pass—hideous days, involving two visits to the San Francisco morgue, one with Helen’s demure, bewildered mother, who insists on flying up from Pasadena and bravely coming along with me to