I remember looking at J.R.R. Tolkien's photo on the jacket of one of the Lord of the Rings books and thinking "What a life!" To be a philologist in Oxford and have drinks in a pub with a bunch of like-minded people. That was the beginning of a failed quest to get a doctorate in English literature. Little did I know how poor of a scholar I would be and how I would be quite happy just to wear a tweed jacket and to drink a pint at the Eagle and Child. At the time, I was with my wife and two of my children, so the company was quite to my liking, also.
So I'm happy with the tweed jacket and the occasional chance to teach Shakespeare.
My other dream was to be a novelist. I made a couple of failed atttempts at that, too. But, as of this morning, I made my page count for my latest effort: 432. Granted, I'm nowhere near done, but I have three one-inch binders filled with mostly intelligible English -- and a tweed jacket.
What next, a blog monograph on the translations of Philip Whalen. If it is I'll need to find out if his first name is spelled with one 'l' or two.