White Devils

At Harvard, one recognizes people from book jackets. In person, in the warm gothic room, their smiles are wider and not enigmatic (to suggest genius and a Cambridge address). All the men and boys are tall have broad shoulders and earth-tone sport coats and shaggy hair and wire-rim glasses that walk a line between metrosexual and scholar as neat as their pants and the corners of the thick Harvard rugs (relative to the wood-panelled wainscoted corners). I find them indifferently attractive as men; as putative professors, they are just as they should be. They are to students as Harvard is to university. It's dizzying and a pleasant place to be at seven o'clock on a dry icy evening.
All this is to say that I don't play second string to anybody.