The Charlottesville Diaries: Love, Literature and Life at UVA: 1976-81

By Christopher Merton

Chris Merton began college at the University of Virginia in the late 1970s with typical concerns: earn good grades, find the right girlfriend, and join a fraternity. But Chris's real dream is to become a great writer—a goal that commits him to recording his entire life as truthfully as possible.

The Independent Book Review calls the Charlottesville Diaries "a thought-provoking glimpse into a young writer's romances on a 1970s college campus ... Here's an unfiltered look at a young man's social life at university in the late '70s that leaves us clawing to understand the man he would grow to become. Merton gives readers the intimate gift of his private being in The Charlottesville Diaries, a chance to witness this young man actively expanding and shaping his worldview on his own terms."

This compelling coming-of-age memoir puts readers on campus in the most tumultuous years of a young person's life. "The Charlottesville Diaries" is about who we are…and more importantly, who we want to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667808659

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Before he died, my Uncle Chris gave me an old cardboard box filled with the diaries that he had kept in his teens and twenties. He entrusted the diaries to me because I had some experience as a journalist, and he thought I was the most likely person in the family to have them published. I honestly didn’t think many people—besides immediate friends and family members—would be interested in these diaries. As I began to read through the old, yellowed notebooks, however, I realized that they might have a larger appeal.

The journals begin in the summer of 1976, just before Uncle Chris began attending the University of Virginia. One of his goals in keeping the diary was to improve his writing to the point that he would become a great writer in the mold of F. Scott Fitzgerald or Ernest Hemingway. Before attending UVA, Uncle Chris grew up in Charlottesville, Virginia. In his diary, he frequently recounts experiences from his childhood there.

I do have to warn you that the first few journal entries are disconnected and episodic. They include passages about a summer trip to Europe and his break up with his high school girlfriend. I encourage the reader to be patient with the first twenty pages or so. By his second semester, the diaries begin to form a more coherent narrative.

In his first year, Uncle Chris consciously adopted an elevated style, inspired by some of his literature courses at UVA. While transcribing the diaries, I was frequently surprised by how this elevated style could suddenly give way to painfully honest expressions of emotions. I had to remind myself that Uncle Chris was just an 18-year-old boy who was finding his place in the world, balancing insecurity with arrogance, romantic devotion with indifference, and profound ideas with boorish behavior. There are passages that are racist and sexist, particularly his practice of rating women according to their physical looks. In defense of my uncle, it’s important to note that the seventies were a different time with different values. Also, Uncle Chris was trying to be as honest with himself as possible and was not above harsh self-criticism.

Throughout the journals, my Uncle Chris expresses doubts about the quality of what he was learning at UVA. At the same time, the journals are a testament to the value of the liberal arts education he received. From semester to semester, there is a marked improvement in his writing style. Aside from keeping a journal, Uncle Chris took numerous writing courses at UVA and wrote for the student newspaper. Based on his entries, it is clear that the courses he completed in literature, psychology, religion, and art improved his writing and his overall intellectual growth.

Perhaps most interesting is how the journals examine the social life of the university and the larger Charlottesville community. My uncle’s mother (and my beloved grandmother), Mary Ann Merton, was active in the Charlottesville public school system and, later, as a professor of education at UVA. The journals chronicle some of her attempts to counter the racism in Charlottesville as well as the school system that had recently transitioned from segregation.

I think another reason my Uncle Chris entrusted me with his diaries is because he thought his own children might be uncomfortable with some of the subject matter. Uncle Chris made me promise not to remove or sanitize any of the entries, aside from obvious spelling and grammatical edits. As a precaution, Uncle Chris gave me a list of aliases for family and friends mentioned in the diaries. He was especially worried about embarrassing some of his ex-girlfriends. Uncle Chris said that, in another twenty years, I could reinstate the real names. By then, the people named in the journals will either be dead or too old to care.

Uncle Chris may not have achieved his goal of becoming a great writer, but I think he was a pretty good one. I hope you enjoy this volume.

–Cynthia Merton, April 2020

SUMMER 1976

July 30

It has been two days since I returned to America after a month-long stay in Europe. During my time there, I kept a diary. When I read through it again, I noticed my writing had improved. This book is a diary in the respect that I will be keeping a daily record. It will recount images, feelings, or whatever I deem necessary to improve my writing. That is the purpose of this book—to learn to transmit ideas from head to pen more easily.

Besides a diary, I am keeping a vocabulary list. I feel that I should have the broadest possible range of words at my command to communicate ideas in the clearest and simplest fashion. The end result of these labors? I cannot and shall not predict. In any event, it will surely aid me in improving my writing and spoken communication. I will also read a great deal.

He who knows nothing, loves nothing. He who can do nothing understands nothing. He who understands nothing is worthless. But he who understands also loves, notices, sees … The more knowledge is inherent in a thing, the greater the love … Anyone who imagines that all fruits ripen at the same time as the strawberries knows nothing about grapes.

–Paracelsus

August 2

In A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway endowed Lieutenant Frederic Henry with certain heroic traits. That character, not surprisingly, bears more than a little resemblance to Hemingway himself. Two of these traits were courage and physical endurance. Of course, the setting of the book—Italy in a time of war—was an ideal proving ground for these traits.

Heroes are seldom fat or stupid. Accordingly, my hero would have keen faculties, both mentally and physically. This hero would be skillful at a great variety of things, including sports and intellectual pursuits. He would always be improving, learning from his mistakes, and finding the quicker means to improve himself.

Another characteristic I’d include is adaptability: the ability to mix, perform, or survive in any environment. But to become versatile, he must purposely impose himself into a variety of situations—as uncomfortable as they may be.

August 3

Three days ago, my mother read an article on the recent popularity of women’s sports, which cited women’s improvements in track and swimming. The article noted how women’s times were improving at a much faster rate than those of the male athletes, suggesting that women athletes would equal male athletes in a few more years.

We’d had an argument earlier on this topic. Mom believes that the reason women are not as good as men at sports is because of existing social patterns that encourage girls to follow more demure pursuits. She says that before the time of puberty, boys and girls are equal.

I stated that the different hormones that boys and girls receive at puberty—testosterone versus estrogen—are athletically advantageous to the male. My mother disagreed. She said that if girls were as highly motivated as boys at an early age, their present performance would be at the same level.

I agreed that women don’t reach their athletic potential like men do. But I said that man’s potential was greater because of his physical differences. The average man is five inches taller than the average woman. I conceded, however, that in some sports, this physical difference might not be a factor in performance and that women could compete on the same level as men.

I conceded that the existing social patterns that prevent girls from becoming athletic are the greatest and most tangible reason for male superiority in certain sports. But I called such sports pussy sports and Mom became quite mad. She maintained that women could compete in those sports in which endurance is a great factor, including swimming and long-distance running. Women, she said, have as much, if not more, endurance as men. I pride myself on my open-mindedness. Time will tell, was how I ended our discussion.

August 9, 1976

There are two things that drive me the hardest—success and defeat. I compete in many activities. I thrive on competition. Winning is a major goal in my life. Fame—the end result. At 17, I sometimes believe that my life is structured around tests of my ability. During this year, I competed on the tennis team, took part in piano competitions, and competed on It’s Academic, a televised quiz bowl team. Last spring, I was asked to enter a statewide forensics competition because the regular contestant got sick. I won the district and regional sections of the boys’ prose readings—the only person in the school to do so.

In addition to these organized competitions, I compete in other ways—in my schoolwork, in pickup basketball games, and at cards. I am continually comparing myself to others to be better than they are. I realize I pick girls to get a better girl than the next fellow.

August 9 August 10—it’s past midnight

I can’t sleep tonight. I’ve been jilted by Becky Snowden. I brought it upon myself, I suspect. My mind is replaying a dozen memories of the past six months, all the way back until that night I spoke to her for the first time. Four of us were playing spades in Ned Snowden’s basement. It was me, Ned, Tom Bensdorf and Daniel Schwartz. Becky came into the room and starting talking to us. Somehow the subject of their family cat came up. Ned called it an ugly cat and Becky defended it. During the conversation, I said beauty is in the eye of the beholder and Becky looked at me, smiling. The next day at lunch, Ned told me that Becky liked me and wanted to go out sometime. I had just gone on my second date with Sandy Grant and liked her, but Becky was somehow more appealing to me. (Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.) For the next six months, I was … well, I won’t write anymore about her until later. Instead, I will write a poem. A sucky poem. Tom Bensdorf calls them Rod McKuen poems. Same thing. Anyway, it will keep me amused and keep my mind off my loss. To write these poems, you have to think of something stupid and then expand on that theme. But tonight, I will begin with a serious subject (Becky) but will nevertheless expand on it foolishly, for I don’t really feel like thinking about her.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Yes, that’s what I told her.

Well, her eyes weren’t quite right

And her nose was a sight

Becoming someone much older. (Her nose isn’t that bad, but it rhymes.)

Her hair is of lemon, her cheeks just like peaches,

Her lips – a fine rose. (Chateaubriand ’42)

I’m no connoisseur,

But I think—yes, I’m sure—

That beauty is hers in most ways.

But one facet of beauty eluded this girl,

A facet you find in the head.

Something was lacking

In her words, in her acting,

Something as solid as lead.

Oh, her heart was of gold,

For that I can’t scold,

And her nature as mellow as hay.

But just try discussing Plato or bussing—

Oh brother, better call it a day.

End of poem. Not strictly McKuen. Not strictly garbage.

August 11, Letter to Aunt Annie

I was supposed to write to Aunt Annie while I was in Europe. She was upset that I didn’t, so here is a rough draft.

Dear Aunt Annie,

The Winged Victory and the Mona Lisa were marvelous, as was the entire trip to Europe. My visit to the Louvre, however, was most greatly anticipated. I was not disappointed. I had previously seen the Winged Victory, in photographs, of course, and from many different angles. I almost felt familiar to the work. But I did notice certain aspects of the work that film had failed to capture, such as the wet, salt-sprayed garment as it clings to the woman’s torso. Beautifully realistic. I wish she had a head.

My first impressions of the Mona Lisa, however, were less inspiring. It was a much smaller picture than I had expected, and it seemed dwarfed by the huge Italian frescoes in the same room. But, upon closer examination (this can only be accomplished by pushing through the crowd) one can understand why it is the most famous picture in the world.

I was also greatly impressed by Venus de Milo and a score of lesser-known works by artists such as Reubens, Rembrandt, Delacroix … I could spend weeks there.

But our visit to the Louvre was only a small segment of our journey. We began in Germany, where I met our traveling companions: my friend’s cousin and his friend. After a two-day stay in Mannheim, the four of us crossed the French border and spent a day in Strasbourg, a town which boasts split timbered houses and a huge medieval cathedral. It was my first encounter with a European cathedral, and I was quite amazed.

Paris was next. We spent a week there and saw a great deal of the city during that time. Besides discovering the magnificence of buildings such as the Louvre, Notre Dame, and St. Chapelle, I was really impressed by the overall atmosphere of the city. I suppose it was the vitality of the people combined with such a setting. The seemingly short visit left me with many unforgettable impressions.

The next week we traveled through the countryside and towns of southern France. We saw chateaux along the Loire, the ocean at La Rochelle, and the medieval city at Carcassonne. From Carcassonne, we spent 24 hours on the train to our next destination—Rome, a city which left me with a different set of impressions than Paris. They had, of course, many similar characteristics, as would two such renowned locations, but their differences seemed more pronounced. Paris was the epitome of elegance and finery, while Rome seemed to emphasize power and pomp. Personified, I suppose it would be the difference between Louis XVI and Caesar.

Well, those are but a few of my impressions left from the trip. I would very much like to return there, for I learned a great deal from the journey. But as Dorothy said, There’s no place like home. Lately, I realized the full significance of that statement.

Love, Chris

August 13, Place Pigalle

One of the excursions I did not mention to my Aunt Annie was my trip to Place Pigalle in Paris. There are two types of establishments at Place Pigalle: sex shops and bars equipped with whorehouses. In the most active places, there is a girl at every turn. Tom and I weren’t at all inclined to make a purchase, but we did enjoy the visual stimulation we received upon peering into the dimly lit bars.

Outside one such establishment, known as Dirty Dicks, a pimp in a sailor cap was repeatedly crying, Ficky-ficky, fuckyfucky.

Upon approaching this house, we peeped inside. The pimp, noticing our interest, walked up to Tom.

Hey boy, how old you?

Seventeen, Tom replied, straightening to his full height.

Dat’ old enough. You come here.

The pimp squeezed Tom’s arm. Pulling him into the dark room, the weasel asked Tom what drink he would like. Tom nervously shrugged his shoulders, and the pimp went to fix Tom a drink.

As my eyes gradually became accustomed to the dim light, I noticed a few extravagantly dressed and very buxom women. One of these fulsome creatures approached Tom, who was trying to make a discreet exit. Then I noticed a pair of eyes staring directly at me—and they were attached to one of those women. I took a few steps back to escape her gaze while still being able to see—Tom! The woman was preventing Tom’s escape. She had unbuttoned the top button on his shirt and was working on the second.

The pimp returned with Tom’s drink and handed it to him. As Tom grasped it, I could hear the ice cubes clinking against the rim of the glass. Tom shot a look at me as if he were drowning and was begging to be thrown a lifeline. I could not rescue Tom. If I entered that sea-swell of depravity, then I would surely meet with the same fate.

I realize that some boys would welcome this predicament. At 17, this kind of experience could be a good one. Although we were curious, we were definitely not interested. There were all those stories of venereal disease. How would that affect our brain cells? Finally, and perhaps most importantly, there was the expense—one hundred and thirty Francs.

And what happened to Tom? He managed to escape, but not before the pimp kicked him in the back of the legs and called him, Clochard! (Tramp!)

August 12

There is an unfair duality in man-woman relationships—at least, in the segments of society I have encountered thus far. After the male’s sexual encounter, he is often revered, if he chooses to make his actions public knowledge. On this same note, however, the female is looked down upon; she may be rejected, her honor is lost. She is burdened with a reputation.

Other than the will to survive, the sex drive is the most powerful motivating factor in the human psyche and must be satisfied. But society often disapproves of sexual intercourse without love. The bonds of marriage seem to be becoming a less important factor. Without love, though, sex is not only disapproved of by society, but is a less enjoyable experience for the two involved.

I suppose I have arrived at the delineation of lust and love. Perhaps there is no separation. Lust is a part of love. Love is all-encompassing. Perhaps the separation can be the love of body and the love of mind, lust and the aesthetic love. Love exists without lust in fraternal and maternal love, and lust can be satisfied without love. But between man and woman, except in a few cases, the relationship is the most powerfully fulfilling and binding when both types of feelings are shared.

Which precedes the other? I maintain that an authentic love must be one which is developed over a period of time. The initial attraction, or love at first sight, is only physical love. Love can’t endure with physical attraction alone. But it certainly helps. With physical love, a man-woman relationship can be initiated more easily. Is this why couples pair off according to looks? Or why ugly girls have the best personalities? Is it the reason for plain Janes and dumb blondes? There are no generalities, of course, but in this society, the pretty girl can afford not to develop her personality. She may never need to. The woman must catch the man. If she is lacking in one, she must develop the other. Bullshit? Somewhat.

August 18

Last night, I, Christopher Merton, hereby came to terms with Becky, concerning our relationship. First, we went to play miniature golf. As we played, the void between us became more noticeable. Next, we went to eat at the Mousetrap. As we talked, the atmosphere between us was a bit less strained, but we didn’t talk about what was really on our minds.

Finally, we went back to Becky’s house to watch TV. For the first time, she sat in the chair rather than beside me on the sofa. It was all rather disheartening. But I had previously thought that if this situation were to be resolved—and it must—all pride and self-doubts would have to be set aside. I would need to confront her openly. So, as we were watching a movie that I had previously seen three times, I turned off the TV. I said that things were going to be different now that I’m going to be at UVA. I told her that I would like to keep seeing her, but I wasn’t sure if it was possible for us to see each other every weekend because I would probably be studying. I didn’t say that I might meet some coed, but I guess that was implied. We talked for a long time. But it’s late now. I’ll write more tomorrow.

August 23

I have not written lately because I had become comfortable, at peace with myself. Then tonight, I went on a date with Becky and my sense of well-being was completely shattered. We’d been very close this summer. We saw each other every day— that is, until I went to Europe. When I returned, her attachment to me was incredibly strong. Well, two days after that, I went to the beach for a week. I was concerned about her dependence on me, so I planned a scheme of gradual detachment from her when I returned. The first night of my arrival, we dated. It was an unusual date. We both were very cold to each other. My plan had begun. I didn’t know why she acted so cool towards me. I found out when we got back to her house. She said she had gotten back together with her old boyfriend. Fuck it all.

August 28

Erich Fromm stated in The Anatomy of Human Destructiveness that man seeks drama on a higher plane. Perhaps more simply, man craves some kind of purpose (if not excitement) in life. That is why I can’t imagine working in some office job for the next fifty years or something. And what will I do to seek drama on a higher plane? I will be a writer. That’s it. My goal is to become a famous writer.

FIRST YEAR

August 29

I have moved into Hancock, my university dorm. At times today, I have felt rather melancholic. First, I am saying good-bye to public school life and the ease of that existence. Secondly, I feel the loss of family and home life (although it is not as drastic for me as for students from out of town). But I believe these feelings would be completely alleviated by my present anticipation of university life if I did not feel the loss of my past relationship with Becky.

I dated her last night and saw two movies: Bob & Ted & Carol & Alice and A Touch of Class. Both movies deal with the importance of monogamous relationships. It is very painful to withstand Becky’s comparative coolness to me after our prior full-fledged relationship. What is especially painful is that she cooled our relationship after only a few fumbling sexual encounters marred by my own lack of experience.

Becky said that that she no longer wanted to be known as someone’s girlfriend. She doesn’t think we can continue as we were as long as I am at the university and she still in high school. She was right on these counts. But oh, the pain! I slept very little the nights of August ninth and tenth. I brooded, paced, did push-ups, and spent hours listening to Elton John’s Funeral for a Friend.

My first reaction was to swear to never call her again and hurt her in return. But I decided against that. I thought I was nobly putting aside my pride, but then I realized that I subconsciously believed that I could re-establish relations with her and have the chance to prove myself.

There was a much larger side to this than lust. I had grown accustomed to having someone to date, to telephone, to hold and kiss. In the beginning, I barely anticipated sex and would have been content to keep the relationship without it. But one thing leads to another, and she, having early experiences with boys, only accelerated the progression of physical events.

Not wanting to leave things as we did, I asked her out last Friday. The first half of our date was incredibly strained. But when we returned to her house, I sat her down in the dark living room and had a most beautiful talk on why I thought things were for the best and how much she had meant to me and how I respected her and admired her for her decision. I suggested that later we could do things together as friends that we never did when we were dating. I even offered to teach her tennis.

This eased her mind. Before we parted that night, we held each other tenderly and we were both quite happy. I’m sure I imagined a continued relationship much stronger than the platonic one I suggested.

August 31

I have overcome my feelings of homesickness and melancholy. It took no planned effort on my part. It has simply occurred. Anyway, these past two days have been quite hectic. I’ve been attending meetings, working out my schedule during the day, and partying at night. Last night, I got to bed at two o’clock in the morning (one thirty the night before). It is difficult to concentrate. It is 12:30 a.m. now and I can hear three different songs blaring from three different dorm room parties.

Last night, Tom, a few friends we know from high school, and I went from dorm to dorm visiting parties. These parties do not have all the prerequisites that, in my opinion, constitute a legitimate party. I would label them gatherings—initiated due to the allure of music, beer, and the opposite sex. The only problem is that no one knows anyone else. But this takes time. I hope I can meet people in my classes.

September 2

Daniel Epwood is a close friend, one I have known since I was ten. He was, and still is, tall, blond, and perhaps a bit too thin. Anyway, Dan is also living at Hancock. Tom Bensdorf and I are on the third floor right. Daniel is on the first floor left. It’s great to have my two oldest friends here in the same dorm with me.

September 4

Dorm life has been fine so far, but Tom and I both wish we were in one of the new dorms, or at least a co-ed dorm. Hancock is the only all-male, first-year dorm. (At UVA, we say first-year instead of freshman, second-year for sophomore, etc.) The reason Tom and I are (stuck) in this dorm is because we missed the dorm registration deadline this summer while we were travelling together in Europe. The guys that volunteered to sign up for Hancock actually prefer to be in an all-male dorm. These are mostly guys that came from all-male prep schools like St. Christopher’s in Richmond and northern prep schools like Deerfield Academy. I can’t say I have a lot in common with these prep school guys. Most are nice enough, but they will probably all join fraternities—and drink a lot.

There are some things you can only do in an all-male dorm. Last night some of the resident advisors (RAs) at Hancock sponsored a movie night in the Hancock lounge. These movies were silent stag films. Before the show, the RAs hung a white sheet over the window and brought in a projector. More than a hundred guys crowded into the dark basement lounge. Tom Bensdorf and I sat in the back, not knowing what to expect. Maybe there would be Playboy centerfolds, we thought. Once the show started, there were definitely naked women, but the films were at least 15 years old. The women had hairstyles like Jackie Kennedy, which made me think that most of these women would now be as old as our mothers. There were also some animals involved, including a German Shephard and a pony.

Most of the guys really enjoyed the show. It seemed like they had seen old stag films before. A few of them made loud comments during the show like, Take the dirt road, Chief!

Sept 6

I have been at the university for eight or nine days now, and I have become fully immersed in college life. I have overcome my pathos for Becky, mostly because I’ve been so busy. I suppose I was feeling a void that could only be filled by a girlfriend. On Saturday night, after dinner at the Observatory (O) Hill Cafeteria, I, Tom Bensdorf, Dan Epwood and two other guys made the rounds of the first-year dorms in pursuit of females. First, we went to a bluegrass concert. This was a little depressing, because there were lots of couples but not many single girls. Then someone told us there was a dance at the Tuttle Dorm, so Tom and I walked over to the new dorms. As we walked, our depression gave way to anticipation, especially when we heard the music from the dorm lobby.

However, this anticipation reverted back to depression upon seeing a large number of boys and a relatively small number of girls. It seemed all the attractive girls already had dates. As Tom and I made the rounds, we regarded a few girls— only momentarily—and then walked on. Recently, Jan Alden, a friend from high school and a girl I admire, lectured me on the degrading and detrimental effects this can have on the wall-flowers.

Then I met a girl—an exceptionally beautiful one actually —and asked her to dance. Her name was Cassie Brown. I was very fortunate to meet her. Cassie turned out to be a skilled dancer. Although skill is not required for the majority of the dances we did, one tends to enjoy the music more and become more experimental and free-wheeling. Cassie and I left the dance at about 12:30 a.m. and went to her room at Watson dorm. As we walked back to the old dorms, Cassie said she was from Urbana, which is a town on the coast, and that she is planning on trying out for the cheerleading squad. (She is definitely pretty enough.) In her dorm room, we sat on her bed and talked some more. She asked if I would like some water. I said yes, and she left to get some. As I was sitting on her bed, I opened my eyes wide, fighting back fatigue. As I did so, I felt my contact lens slide somewhere away from the center of my eye. In the past, I have been able to get the contact to return to its proper position by rolling my eyes around. I was experimenting with this technique when Cassy re-entered the room with the glass of water. I explained that I had new contacts and was having some temporary problems with them. I performed a few more ocular contortions as she stared at me, offering unhelpful advice. Unable to get the contact back to the center of my eye, I told Cassie I needed to return to my dorm and that I would be right back. Well, as soon as I got out of her sight, I ran to my room as fast as my legs would carry me. When I got back to Hancock, I tried to extract the tiny glass lens using a little rubber plunger. With the help of a dormmate, I finally got the lens out. Wanting to get back to Cassie’s dorm room as soon as possible, I gave up on the contacts and put on my less flattering —and less troublesome—spectacles.

I ran back to Watson dorm with eager anticipation, racing up the three flights of stairs to her floor where I could see that her door was still open, and the light was on. Good, I thought. She’s waiting for me!

She was waiting for me all right, but with two third-year guys sitting on her bed. I stayed around talking to the guys, who actually seemed kind of nice and asked if I wanted to rush their frat. Eventually Cassie’s roommate showed up and said she wanted to go to bed. So, we all left. God damn contact lenses.

I have been to three dances, and I have been through the same round of conversation with the three respective girls I met at these events. It goes something this:

Me: Would you like to dance?

Girl: Yes. (A nod of the head)

Me: They’re a pretty good band, aren’t they?

Girl: Oh, yes.

Me: What’s your name?

Girl: Mary. What’s yours?

Me: I’m Chris. How do you like the university?

Girl: Oh, I love it. Charlottesville is such a pretty town.

Me: Where are you from?

Girl: Smithville, Virginia. Where are you from?

Me: Well, I’m what you call a townie. I live here.

Girl: Oh, really?

Me: Yeah. In fact, my home is about a half mile from here.

Girl: Oh. Do you live at home?

Me: No. I’m at the dorms.

Girl: The old dorms or the new dorms?

Me: The old ones. I’m at Hancock. It’s the only all-male dorm. Which dorm are you in?

Girl: I’m in Watson.

Me: Oh. How do you like your roommate?

Girl: Oh, she’s fine. We get along really well. How about you?

Me: My roommate is someone I’ve known since the third grade.

Girl: Okay.

Me: Where did you say you were from again?

Girl: Smithville.

And this continues until whenever. Usually, we start talking of home life, since there’s not much more to say about college yet. But what if I asked a girl, who was not as interested, to dance? Imagine the conversation:

Me: Would you like to dance?

Girl: (Sighs) Why not?

Me: What’s your name?

Girl: What’s it to you?

Me: Well, I was just curious … anyway, I’m Chris.

Girl: Mmm.

Me: Where are you from?

Girl: Tokyo.

Me: I’m what you would call a townie. I live here.

Girl: That’s too bad.

Me: I’m at Hancock … Do you like your roommate?

Girl: She’s a bitch.

Me: Where did you say you were from?

Girl: I didn’t.

Sept 28

So much has happened in the last two weeks. The primary development has been Cassie Brown. I am a monogamous person, although I’m not sure if my preference for monogamy is dependent more upon time limitations rather than the desire for one single person.

I have set my priorities according to four basic activities:

1. Studies

2. Piano

3. Tennis

4. Womanizing

(hopefully, in that order)

My days are becoming increasingly full. I have become terribly conscious of time and the need to exploit every minute. My schedule for Mondays and Wednesdays is … (It’s late, got to run.)

Oct 13

In the last few weeks, I have become increasingly interested in the classic works I have been reading for my World Literature Course: The Canterbury Tales, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Doctor Faustus … As I read these works, they often seem extremely relevant to the modern (and my own) condition. My professor, Dr. Darryl Gless, is young (thirty-ish), supremely intelligent, and engaging. He must be quite a scholar, for he seems to be extremely intimate with the classics and the Bible —a requirement, I suppose, for the complete understanding of Renaissance literature.

Dr. Gless does not have a great admiration for most contemporary works of literature. Perhaps he feels that modern works are simplified restatements of past thoughts. Perhaps he is just so enthralled with the symbolic beauty in Spenser that the stark realities of Tennessee Williams and Ibsen seem crude. I base these conjectures mainly on a few quick comments he made during his lectures. I probably don’t know the man well enough. I would like to become more familiar with him.

Oct 14

Cassie Brown is beautiful. She is physically attractive. This is not a statement clouded by any feelings I have for her. It is an objective analysis of what most people would consider to be the definition of beautiful. I know her physical beauty is what attracted me to her—initially. Outside appearances can also say a great deal about a girl’s personality. Sherlock Holmes would concur. Hairstyle, dress, and expression of face and body can say much about one’s upbringing, socialization, and values. In other cases, these superficial factors can hide some underlying personality traits. And then at some social affairs (dances), it doesn’t matter, because sometimes the boy-girl ratio is so bad, you’ll grab anything in a skirt.

Perhaps the last statement was chauvinistic. Sad but true.

I’m sure natural instincts play a large part in this need for beauty, but it has developed into something greater … I wish to know women, to know their characteristics collectively and individually. Perhaps that statement is rather far-flung. I am curious about their subtleties, nuances, and moods.

To do this best, I won’t form many small, impersonal, relationships, but one great one. I am back to Cassie Brown—my guinea pig, my case study, my Venus, my object of adoration. She is a perfect subject and an ideal mate. She is beautiful and invigorating, but above all, she is honest. She has an openness that is refreshing and satisfies my curiosity.

Oct 16

Things had been going well with Cassie. We spent an afternoon lying down together on my dorm room bed. We talked for a long time and then started kissing. As things began to progress, she stopped me. She told me that a few days ago, she had been diagnosed with having a cyst in her uterus. She showed me a slight bump around her stomach where the cyst was. She said it was the size of a grapefruit, and she placed my hand on the bump so I could feel how big and hard it was. She told me that she was going to have surgery the next day. She was scared and asked if I would come visit her in the hospital after her surgery. I promised her I would. Then, we continued to lie in bed like that holding each other for another hour or so. At one point, she started to cry, and I assured her that everything was going to be okay, and that the UVA hospital has some of the best doctors in the world.

The next day, I came to visit Cassie at the UVA hospital after her surgery. When I entered her room, she was propped up in bed. There were three other people in the room: an older couple and another guy about my age. These are my parents, she said, and this is Steve. The parents smiled at me, but Steve looked at me with a blank stare. Cassie introduced me with a big smile. This is Chris, she said. He’s my study buddy. At first, this statement seemed odd to me, because Cassie and I have never studied together. It also seemed odd to me because Cassie said it in a very pronounced southern accent. Study buddy came out as studdah buddah. In fact, everything she said sounded more southern, and I realized this was how she talked around her family. I also realized that Steve was her hometown boyfriend, and she didn’t want him to know that we were more than friends. I called Cassie the next day. She apologized. She no longer talked with her heavy accent. Nevertheless, she said she and Steve were back together. She explained that Steve was enrolled at a Baptist seminary somewhere and the cyst had made her appreciate how much he meant to her. I guess Steve probably prayed with her a lot while she was in the hospital. I told Cassie I was glad she was okay and that they had removed the cyst … the God damn cyst.

Oct 18

Today, my French teacher, Monsieur Beaumont, attempted to convince us that the twentieth century is artistically backward compared with other centuries. He believes that the most creative output today is insignificant and will not stand the test of time. As Monsieur Beaumont was expressing this belief, I periodically glanced at Frasier McDaniels, a friend from high school, who sat in the back of the room. (Normally, I would have sat next to Frasier, but M. Beaumont has assigned us seats.) As I expected, Frasier disagreed completely. He pointed out heatedly that authors and painters have made great advancements in the twentieth century. I agreed with Frasier, but did not speak out. I couldn’t really articulate my arguments, and maybe I was afraid that disagreeing with Mr. Beaumont would hurt my grade.

I admire Frasier for showing the courage of his convictions. He had been on the Charlottesville High School (CHS) debate team and was always able to express his opinions, which are often quite strong. Frasier is rushing DKE (Deke), along with several other guys who are friends from high school, including Ken Hanson, Bob Bowman, and Blair Filmore. Frasier asked me and Tom to rush with them, but Tom and I declined. There would definitely be some advantages to joining a frat. But there would also be a