In the dream Spock stood at the lectern, his hands gripping hard on either side. His head was slightly bowed and he looked up through the ridges of his forehead at the classroom. His lidless eyes bulged and it seemed to me that he had Down syndrome, perhaps, although
it was hard to say for sure. His face was red and his body shook with something like suppressed rage. The tin insignia on his uniform breast trembled against a field of blue polyester.
He was saying something about Melville’s use of imagery in Moby Dick, but everybody knew he wanted to teach us physics instead. It wasn’t in his nature to teach the humanities, but he struggled on.
He was at war with something inside of him, that much seemed clear, but there was nothing to do but watch him fight it out. It was not something that could be helped, it was what he was made for.