I wrote a lecture last week about the concept of home in the books we’ve studied this semester. We were thinking about diaspora.
As I wrote the paragraph about Robinson Crusoe, I cried. I remembered reading the novel four months ago. I remembered so clearly the blissful, dozy happiness of that cottage in Bright. The hours of half-heartedly prodding the beginning of the novel between watching the tennis and sleeping on the couch. I even have a photo of me asleep on the sofa, Robinson Crusoe propped against my nose, the top button of my trousers undone because they were just starting to get too tight.
I brought the novel with me on the day of the termination. I was closer to the end, then. I remember being utterly horrified when Crusoe sailed off with his English rescuers, not even waiting for his new friends the Spaniards to return. My surgeon was impressed by my bedside reading. We had a discussion about colonialism. He was a closet Australian history geek.
I wrote the paragraph, and I cried. But then I wrote the next paragraph, and the next, and I finished the lecture.
But I realized there is more to say. There is definitely more to say.