Nevertheless . . .

Sometimes it is difficult to differentiate between the academic and the personal—writing a dissertation is like turning a novel inside out and looking for the seams, the reversal of writing: a denial, an inhibition, a censorship. To whom does my writing belong when it is no longer personal? Is academic work less academic if it comes with a confession of intimate attachments to the work? Doesn’t passion for one’s work imply a certain relationship that crosses professional boundaries?

My initial answers to those question are quite simple: Yes and yes and yes. Perhaps I am only speaking for myself when I say that at the bottom of the dissertation well lies the reason, the kernel, the seed. Choosing is not a matter of choice, but a matter of chase—that which we must go after, that which we both haunt and haunts us. I write (I always write) in the interest of the personal, to clarify the personal and articulate the private. I never intended to become an academic…I came against my will. I write only for myself.

It stands to reason, then, that my best qualifications for the academic job have very little to do with academics. Should I confess this at an interview? Or use it as an ice breaker next time I meet with my adviser? Apparently, to Him (and it is always a Him), I happened to take a trip too far into my native land, taking my project for a notebook. But six years into this, everything beyond the title suggests that I did not intend to live here forever.