I’ve always loved puzzles: I can happily spend hours on crosswords, logic games, pattern problems, or riddles, because a stubborn part of me believes that for every problem, there exists an elegant solution. Looking back at my time at USC, I’ve come to think of every English class I’ve taken, every book I’ve read, and every paper I’ve ever written as one mind-boggling puzzle after another: this world is quite the enigma, and to distill the chaos and complexity of life into an intelligible string of symbols is, to me, an attempt at the most elegant solution of all. And yet, I say attempt, because life is a messy thing, and I’ve often lamented the occasions in which words fail to convey or articulate a thought or feeling; likewise, I’ve often feared the complexity of language, knowing well that meaning is not merely a function of grammar and words. To write or speak is to allow your words to be consumed and reimagined in the minds of other individuals, and it would seem that meaning, rather than being derived from a series of well-defined laws and theorems, is made as an amalgamation of disparate thoughts and experiences. I guess that’s why language and literature has always intimidated me: I enrolled in my first English class four years ago perplexed and terrified by how something that could convey so much beauty could also create so much confusion. The function from language to meaning and meaning to language became, for me, a puzzle of sorts, as I became aware that the code I claimed to speak and understand was one I actually had no idea how to crack.
It was a miracle that I somehow landed in Professor Russett’s ENGL262 as a freshman unsure of anything—at the time, I was not yet an English major, and her class was the only one that fit in my schedule. The concoction of Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Byron, and McEwan was the source of consolation I never knew I needed: I still remember entering Taper Hall on the very first day in a state of despair and confusion, only to find in every poem, novel, drama, and essay a cause for curiosity, wonder, and awe. Without Professor Russett, I don’t think I would have ever added an English major: I was, and continue to be, humbled and inspired by the texts we read. Ultimately, Professor Russett taught me how to reimagine and engage with literature, which, in turn, taught me how to relive and reexperience the world around me as though I were seeing it for the very first time.
All of this is to say that for all my life, reading has given me perspective, while writing has given me clarity. However, beyond giving me the time and space to read and write to my heart’s content, I believe my English major revitalized a sense of awe and wonder in a world that can often be perceived as intimating, chaotic, and cruel. Today, I am grateful to Professor Bea, who taught me to see language as a vehicle between writers and readers of the past and present, and literature as an ongoing conversation. I have to say thank you to Professor Findeisen, who challenged me to consider how literature questions and responds to contemporary events and issues, and Professor Handley, for making me realize the importance of bearing witness to events of the past and present through the stories we write and tell. I owe a great deal to Professor Anderson, who encouraged me to see and explore reading as a form of enchantment, and Professor Lemon, who allowed me to indulge in the nuances and complexities of a single word in the OED. Finally, I have to thank Professor Russett for all her wisdom and generosity—for instilling a deep love for English within me, and for making me realize that the greatest joy in life doesn’t come from finding an answer to every question. As it turns out, there isn’t an elegant solution to every puzzle, and that’s kind of amazing! Life, rather than beginning with having an answer to every question, gifts us with the freedom to ask.
