Confessions of an English major who has survived it all

At the outset of this, my 50th and final column of 2025, please allow me the privilege of a bit of self-indulgent reminiscence — specifically, a list of five favorite writers from my college days.

I promise it’ll be painless … but, with any luck, not pointless.

After surviving the gauntlet of 13th grade, aka freshman year, I was required to select a major — that is, a field of study that would form the spine of my academic experience for the next six semesters.

Quite obviously, anything math- or science-related came off the board immediately, and I didn’t need my SAT scores to tell me that.

I thought about political science — in which my professorial father specialized — with an eye on law school, gave a few days of consideration to philosophy with a minor in theology, and took the idea of American studies — a catchall collection of the humanities tied up in a tidy bow of inclusiveness — out for a quick spin.

But in the end, I had only one real choice … I’d major in English.

After all, I could read and write, so it seemed right up my alley.

You may be wondering, “Was part of your decision based on the pragmatic idea you could succeed in a journalism career?”

It’s a valid question, but let me disabuse you of that notion here and now: I had no plan for anything, not an iota of concern for what the future might hold, certainly no idea I’d still be writing now, having started in 1977 and weathered every conceivable plot twist.

All I was seeking was a safe harbor, a place to drop anchor and excel, a way to prepare for the long voyage ahead, a chart to follow.

In descending order, these five writers helped me map my way:

—Richard Brautigan: They called him Dada-esque, they called him a poetic painter of words, they called him a wizard … but mostly, he was a drunk/stoner. But that’s kind of why my friends and I liked him, even went so far as to build a semi altar in his honor in our dorm room. This was sophomore year, and after a tumultuous freshman minefield that made us all stronger, we formed a bond that lasted, well … we weren’t talking to each other by the end of the spring semester. Very rough on all of us, but we never stopped loving “Trout Fishing in America” or “In Watermelon Sugar,” which remain essential. Brautigan blew his brains out in 1984.

—Hunter S. Thompson: And speaking of great writers who took the easy way out, mention must be made of HST. My first fall in college still looms large, not only because I was all alone a long way from home, but also because I began the process of assimilation. Crucial to that was my discovering a little place just off the main artery called — and Mom loved this — Pandora’s Books. On my first visit, I spied a hardcover edition of “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail,” a Gonzo account of George McGovern’s doomed 1972 campaign. I inhaled it, usually leaning back against a tree down by St. Mary’s Lake.

A couple of years later, the author himself appeared on campus, but I was so, um, discombobulated that the cassette tape I tried to make of his lecture came out as an hour and a half of hissing silence. Sounds about right …

—Joseph Heller: If “Catch-22” isn’t the most cinematic novel this side of “Gone With the Wind,” it’s up there among the best. I tried it in high school but got waylaid by “The Godfather,” another book made for the big screen, but came back to it later in life. Yossarian is among my favorite characters in all of American literature because he understands the futility of being right all the time. Heller only wrote one more book I enjoyed, and that was “Something Happened,” which depressed me for weeks on end. But the man could write circles around almost everyone else.

—William S. Burroughs: Notre Dame hosted an annual event called the Sophomore Literary Festival, which was nationally known as being the only student-run celebration of the written word. Everything — from contacts to contracts, rental cars to accommodations, public readings and classroom seminars and post-appearance parties — was handled by kids my age, and it was an impressive example of how well something so complex could be handled so beautifully, our private wordsmith Woodstock.

Among the writers I saw were Tennessee Williams, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Ken Kesey, Denise Levertov, Gary Snyder, Joyce Carol Oates and Jason Miller, who had just finished playing the role of Father Karras in “The Exorcist” but fancied himself a playwright as well. Or maybe a poet … he was a big deal back then, though, and he packed ’em in at Washington Hall. But my favorite of them all was William Burroughs.

His presence in the library auditorium was special, though he appeared skeletal, and the mood he set was sepulchral, sitting at a desk on the left side of the stage, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he read from “Naked Lunch.” I was there with a beautiful and intelligent English major, whose unexpected friendship/company meant I was punching well above my weight class. She and I agreed within minutes of Burroughs’ introduction that before we left the auditorium, we’d make off with his ashtray. She called it “freeing” the glass artifact, and I asked, “You mean ‘stealing,’ right?” She smiled her secret smile and said, “Just listen to the words and let go of your fears.” It will come as no surprise to you I still have that ashtray.

—John Updike: My brother once dismissed his prose as “Japanese lanterns … pretty to look at but offering no real illumination,” something condescending and typical. Updike’s novels and short stories enriched my life almost beyond my comprehension or ability to quantify such an impact. My favorite professor was a Chicago-born guy, and he was the one to lift the curtain on Updike’s brilliance. Taking his time, reading passage after passage in his dry tenor, occasionally walking between desks in his classroom in the administration building — better known as the Golden Dome — he would deconstruct a scene from, say, “A Month of Sundays” and break it down into its essential parts before providing his interpretation of the novel as a whole.

This is an inadequate comparison, but it reminded me of that “Andy Griffith Show” episode in which Goober takes apart Gilly Walker’s car and reassembles it in the courthouse, much to Floyd’s amazement and Andy’s chagrin. My point being this: Looked at a certain way, it was foolishness … seen from another angle, though, it was genius. I took no fewer than four of his courses over my last two years at ND and consider him the finest professor I ever had. Updike’s work continued to be vital for decades after, and every now and then, I’ll pull down my copy of “Rabbit Redux” and read it for the simple pleasure of remembering how the best writers do it.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where the power of the written word is magical.