Besides having summers off, there was never anything about being a teacher that appealed to Giovanni. Neither in the rearing of other peoples' children, nor the thankless tedium of report cards, nor the parent-interviews, nor being held to account by career-jockeying-croney-administrators and the litany of other things they required of him. During those days, instead of doing the things expected by genteel society, there was much more lucrative business to attend.
These were the responsibilities that he had sought to kill in his journey east. His brain had started to liquefy in his skull, bouncing along on that train to Prague that August afternoon, and never was he able to foresee that macabre end awaiting him down that dark, damp hallway. That hooded, black figure for whose services he eventually learned he would need a reservation.
In spite of the terrible failing on his and their part that later came of it, nothing could ever compare to that mind-melting train-ride, those hours between lives, not the reputation, respect, the power. In his memory, during these hours, it was like a giant invisible hand stuck out its long pointed finger, slowly, to push against the earth's axis, reversing the seasons; like those moments in nature during a total solar eclipse when everything stirs in its place. He smiled.
Why Prague? Why the cryptic letters? Why him? Such were the questions that had sloshed around that brain of his. To such questions he would soon have the answer. But until then, such questions meant suspense, an ignorance like that of schoolchildren. Now, as he awaited Death's cold hand, he knew those hours of ignorance were the point at which everything would change. He held onto those hours like a refuge.
Because I could not stop for Death –
But what was the second half of that verse? No—that couldn’t ruin this moment; ignorance can not torment a dead-man. For God’s sake, what was the second-half of that damned verse!
Because I could not stop for Death--
That horrible ignorance, those words echoing against the cold, concrete walls of his cell, that mental refrain begging for completion, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, that and his ignorance to the question, where in the world was that damned list? were the thoughts that walked Giovanni down that hall toward his cold damp end.
Yes I can confess unreservedly that the school holidays are the best part of a teacher’s job. Especially so because my wife is a non-teacher and I get to rest more than her
I’m just glad that this teacher hasn’t lost his compulsion for Literature despite being cynical and burnt out by his profession. He will probably recall the second line once he reaches the other side
I hadn't read much in this area...
But I liked this post!!
Thanks for sharing!
I'll be stopping by more often!
Oof. That hits like a slow, creeping fog rolling in over the bones of a man who’s already halfway gone.
Giovanni was never built for chalk dust and parent-teacher nights—he knew it, and so did the system he quietly slipped away from. Teaching wasn’t a calling; it was a cage. So he did what any man with a pulse and a past does—he ran east, chasing shadows and profit, maybe thinking he could outrun whatever it was that had been tailing him all along.
But Prague wasn’t an escape. It was a setup. That train ride—melting his mind like wax in the August heat—wasn’t freedom, it was a crossing. Between lives. Between knowing and not knowing. And deep down, even as everything was unraveling, that was the moment he cherished most. The stillness before the storm. The ignorance before the reckoning.
And now, with Death brushing past him like a final draft of cold air, all he wants is to remember the line that comes after:
“Because I could not stop for Death—he kindly stopped for me.”
Too late now. The verse escapes him, just like the list did. And that’s what walks him to the end—not fear, not regret, but the gnawing, unfinished thoughts of a man who once thought he could sidestep the price of knowing.