In March, Gibson flew to Chicago. His girlfriend was in a graduate program there studying literature, and one night the two of them went to dinner at her professor’s house. Gibson was a professor too. Most of his students were poor. So was Gibson. He suspected that he wouldn’t have liked teaching at the school his girlfriend attended, but he knew it wasn’t anything he would ever have to worry about. During dinner, the professor asked questions about Gibson’s school, saying that he imagined his experience was different from Gibson’s, because his students were privileged and Gibson’s were less so. For a few minutes, the conversation sputtered. The professor opened up another bottle of wine, and then he, his wife, and Gibson’s girlfriend—all poets—argued about poetry. Gibson didn’t drink. He…
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The Paris Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, Winter 2024 (250)