I wiped the sweat off my brow as I hurried to the University’s auditorium. The spring term had begun. As a classics student I have always marvelled at the complexity of history. I colour my syntax frequently with stories of Homer and Pliny the Elder. They were the stories of hope and prosperity, a quality so needed and so undeservedly missing in my vapid life.
As I entered the shadowy corridor a beam of sunlight from an exterior window began to obscure my vision. The juxtaposition of shadows of the hall and the ray of light caught me off guard and I began to wither in my senses. The sensual confusion had clouded my judgement, and I began to forget where my seminar was. In an exasperating semblance of logic I took to my phone to try and discern a route. It was then I noticed a notification pop up on my screen.
> One missed call from Mum.
I always worried about my mother. Since my diagnosis of multiple personality disorder began to bloom and cloud my senses and judgement, my mother’s worrying frets grew larger and more tiresome as the days, weeks and months proceeded. Particularly when I would have a blank spell. Particularly when the others would awake.
I entered the University’s auditorium, which awoke my now ruined senses. A gruff, greyish man loomed large at the centre of the university’s auditorium hall. He was short in figure, stoutish in demeanour. As I took a seat in the far corner of the room I began to examine my professor.
Classics are renowned for their archaic position within modern society, and the lecturer that stood before me was no exception. He wore an oddly coloured mauve blazer that resembled a relic; an artifact from times gone by. His entire bodily presence matched the aura of his demeanour; old and scruffy.
As he spoke, the received pronunciation of his well-to-do accent reverberated through the auditorium.
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“Welcome students to your opening lecture, we will begin by closely examining Athenian comedies and tragedies”.
He paused for breath before recollecting his words.
“As you know, it was the fourth century comic poet Antiphanes who remarked that there is a relative difficulty of writing comedies over tragedies. We will be spending the entirety of this semester examining whether Antiphanes was correct and what we can glean from such a statement.
I made a silent groan, digesting the professor’s words. His prose and dialectic way of speaking was a far cry from the wonders of literature I had been previously accustomed to as a child. I always marvelled in the wonders of Ancient Greek texts from the tales of Medusa and the Amazons. I thrived mentally in the veracity of the tales of Greek women and how their endeavours conjured hope into the public imagination. I spent the rest of the seminar day-dreaming about the Amazons, in a futile bid to hope that I could leave the world of academia, even just for a day, and become transported into the world of Ancient Athens.
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After leaving the auditorium, I took to looking at the prescribed readings for my core curriculum. Oedipus Rex. I scoffed at the pretentious namesake of the text. Oedipus the King or Oedipus Tyrannos was a Greek text, yet it had been assigned a Latin name - rex meaning King in Latin. At no point was the novel written or set in Rome. A common misgiving with classical literature that I was surprised had entered the vicinity of such a prestigious university as mine.
As my day drew to a close, I wearily set myself aside to my bedroom, rubbing at my bleary and diaphanous eyes. At the anatomical left of my peripheral vision sat an old television gifted to me by my mother many birthdays ago. A garagntitune piece of technology, its old facade had been the source of much embarrassment whenever I invited guests over, if any came. I was not focused on the exterior presence of the television but more what was on it. A weather forecast, predicting bright spells of sunshine for the following day. I tried to summon a semblance of glee at the forecast prediction, yet I knew my labours for the day would awaken one of the voices.