This week I've had two discussions by IM with people at different places in the career curve.
One is mid-way through the first year of law school, and trying to find a Summer position. Another is mid-way through the third year of law school, and trying to find that first permanent position. Both attend law schools perhaps a bit more "oohjah cum spiff" than my own, if you'll pardon the Wodehouse phrase. Neither quite brought home as much cream with the milk grades-wise, if you'll again pardon the lapse. I found, parenthetically, that I sometimes spoke a kind of Drones Club speak, well salted with brisk antidotes of the speech of the southern American humorist Jerry Clower, well before I had ever read my first Jeeves book.
The drama of living. It's so tempting, twenty years on into my law career, to say only the obvious advice--that a rejection slip is not a reason for despair in a job hunt any more than one from a poetry magazine; that few people with law degrees starve, and many of those very few who do lack data more than being the victims of some vast conspiracy; that one cannot underestimate the supreme value of a minimum of debt, a (very) few honest friends, and avoidance of substance addiction; and that in the long run, one cries over milk much more radically spilt than the things one cries over at 22.
But what would a play be if the suspense did not build? Darius Fo, I suppose.
Poor example. But it all tends to work out all right--or the ways that it fails to work out all right have nothing to do with On Campus Recruiting or the 1L writing project in which one imagines one is a counsel before the Board of Veterans' Appeals writing mellifluous legalese about Agent Orange.
I love the way that each passage is life is a kaleidoscope--crystals whirring,
light refracting, a thing unto itself.