An introduction to David Lenson’s lecture at the Commonwealth Honors College, University of Massachusetts Amherst, on February 13, 2013. Here are only a very few representative samples of the many, many evaluations made by students with regard to David Lenson and his teaching: One of the most incredible professors that I have ever had.He . . .
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(Photo: David Lenson, from the 1963 Nutley High School yearbook) When I remember David Lenson it is his kind eyes and his wicked grin, full of mischief, as though he had just eaten a bird and was waiting, even hoping, for someone to notice. The first time I met him was in . . .
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(Photo: David Lenson at three. Courtesy of Barry Lenson.) David R. Lenson—comp lit professor at UMass Amherst and one of the best teachers I have had—has passed away. He had been sick a long time, victim of a serious stroke. I took a course called “The Double in Literature” with David in . . .
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The only architecturally modern building in Nyamata is the town church. Or at least it was. Ot still stands today, one story tall, made from bricks, with a high-ceilinged sanctuary in the middle. Back in its full glory the church was the centerpiece of Nyamata, a small village on a hill in . . .
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(David Lenson at his sixtieth birthday party, with Bo Henderson. Tobey Photo.) When I first heard of David, I was a graduate student in the Department of Comparative Literature at UMass Amherst in 2000. Every graduate student spoke highly of him then, as they do now and, I am sure, will continue . . .
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(Photo: David Lenson, courtesy of Pamela Glaven) A little over a week ago, David Lenson died at home, in his Mill Hollow apartment in Amherst. A poet, essayist, musician, and legendary professor, he was seventy-five years old. Brother Barry remembers David as a Victory Baby, born in 1945; the boys grew up . . .
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Read Part Six here “a howling radio for our paraclete” As September winds to a close, leaves beginning to turn color and fall, warm days washed out by rains moving from west to east or up the coast, protests continue in parks and public squares. The cooling air is charged with tension . . .
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Abdullah was the first to forget her. Standing at the counter with a soda and a pack of wintergreen gum, she assumed that the shop owner—with whom she prided herself on having established a rapport; it made her feel like a local—was just having a bad day. “How’s everything going?” she asked . . .
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Hamid’s wife has been in the hospital for two days. At the Gynae ward of the Medical College. No indication for delivery yet. At times she feels a little pain—not so severe, though. If asked, the nurse says that the doctor will wait a day more, otherwiseshe’ll need an operation. Operation!—from”The Color . . .
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In 1968 I was living a half block from San Francisco’s Haight Street, I’d just lost my job, and though I didn’t consider myself a hippie, I was stoned twenty-four hours a day. My speech and the condition of my eyes made that obvious, so how was I going to support myself? . . .
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