In life Gerard Manley Hopkins did not live even to celebrate his golden jubilee of existence. He died on June 8, 1889, before his 45th birthday, unknown, unprized, unlamented even within the comparatively small circle of his acquaintance. Not one of his poems had been published; and apart from his poems he left nothing to his contemporaries worthy of note or record. All things considered, he was left at death- as he complains in one of his last poems, whose only reader was his friend Robert Bridges- “a lonely began.” And so he died, as he seemed to have lived, a sad failure in everything he had attempted, or what he calls in the same poem “time’s eunuch.”
Timothy S. Healy, S.J.
When I first came to Georgetown twelve years ago, the most frequent comment I heard was, “It must be a great change from City University.” I responded easily at first by citing City University’s 250,000 students and 18,000 faculty members and adding that I was responsible for the care and feeding of twenty college presidents (which incidently gave me a less than adoring fix on the breed). It took me some years before I realized that the honest answer was “Yes, and Georgetown is more complicated.”
James R. Kelly
I was late in discovering that Ed Cuffe was my favorite teacher. For more than a decade he was my unfavorite teaching, someone a clumsy sociologist might call a “negative role model.” In and out of class he was nervous and twitchy, he did not cover the “discipline” (literature), and he gave odd assignments. He dressed like and e.e. cummings poem.