No matter if this was the actual face of Kristeva or not.
Or else she is waiting, interminably, for an answer that will not satisfy her. Her eyes have just glanced something too beautiful and terrible for forget. When I became lost in the thicket of Kristeva’s words, which was practically all the time, I turned to the cover, to her face staring past the camera, contemplating escape, I thought. Reading too much Kristeva I found that my own spoken words became, for a short time, garbled as if in translation. I hid the book away and then found it again. I puzzled over it, laughing at its absurdity like a Midwestern boy. Reader, I loved that sentence, although I didn’t understand it. “The figure of speech known as metaphor merely actuates, within the synchronic handling of discourse, the process that, genetically and diachronically, makes up one signifying unit out of at least two (sound and sight) components.” The book was-to say the least-intimidating, especially to a kid from BGSU in northwest Ohio (just like the bad cop said) and it had sentences like this: This was in 1989, pre-Web, and I was too interested in preserving the mystery of Kristeva to track down print images of her to compare to the cover. For no where in the book does it say just who is the woman on the cover. I fell in love with the face on the cover a book of theory called Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, by Julia Kristeva, translated by Leon S. But first I fell in love with her face, or what I thought was her face. I found out the next semester-winter term 1989-and I want to say that that’s when I fell in love with Julia Kristeva’s words. Although I understood my professors were right (the course was team taught by a good cop and bad cop I’m convinced that the good cop made sure my grade was not lower and basically saved my rear for long enough that I could prove myself) I didn’t understand what they meant about theory. I was reluctant to share the evaluation with my wife for a while, and told her I had received “A’s’ in my other two seminars (which I had) and that I was not alone in earning a “B” in the Intro. He has potential, but he has a lot of catching up to do in terms of theory. In essence, it said: Nicholas seems like a nice gentleman and a tenacious worker, but he is completely lacking in theory, probably because he comes to us from Bowling Green State University. The typed comments about my performance were kind, but blunt. Akin to a “C” in undergrad classes, I was told. I remember I earned a “B,” which is not too good.
In the winter of 1989 I had finished my first semester of graduate studies in English at Penn State University and received, in my campus mailbox, the comments from my professors for the “Introduction to Graduate Studies” class.
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