So that’s how I came to leave Vanderbilt University and give up my beautiful fellowship, my new Southern friends, my carrel in Kirkland Hall, and, most likely, my doctorate in English literature. For a while, the whole ordeal—the ridiculousness of it, the unfairness—put me in a dark mood.
I finally decided to at least get my master’s degree. That was allowed under the rules.
My adviser in the English department encouraged me to write some fiction rather than a thesis on John Hawkes, which had been my original suggestion and a really bad idea. It may be hard to imagine that Hawkes—who wrote, “I began to write fiction on the assumption that the true enemies of the novel were plot, character, setting, and theme”—was once a hero of mine, but he was, back when I was a literary snoot.
God, was I pretentious and out of touch in those days. Nothing against John Hawkes, but I love plot, character, setting, and theme.
Anyway, I didn’t have to go to Vietnam.
Actually, I went into a different jungle.