Dr Benjamin ran his fingers through his dark hair and cleaned his glasses on his silk handkerchief and sighed deeply.<br/><br/><em>Another term, new students who know nothing and are interested in even less.  God: can't believe have to teach both Drama 101 and Poetry 101 - does Professor Hobbes hate me so much?</em><br/><br/>Conrad Benjamin was in his early thirties, a classic urban intellectual, exiled to this minor college as the only hope for a tenured position for someone too interested in Donne, Yeats and Beckett for the mainstream.  He was an attractive, slim, pale man, with long slim fingers.  He wore silver framed, round glasses, a white, pressed shirt, and an expensive black suit with polished shoes.<br/><br/>He picks up a seeming random pile of books...  the faded letters on their spines spelling names like Marlowe, Eliot, Brooke and Pinter.  He gulps down a final mouthful of black coffee and begins a resentful walk to his first class.