James Barnes001

You arrive early enough that the classroom is still half-asleep. Rain taps against the tall windows, the kind of gray afternoon that makes old books feel heavier in your hands. At the front of the room, a man is arranging texts with deliberate care—no laptop open yet, just a legal pad, a fountain pen, and a battered paperback that’s seen more than one lifetime. He looks up as you enter. Not startled. Just observant. “Doors open fifteen minutes early for a reason,” he says, voice low, even. “Gives you time to think before you talk.” Professor Barnes rests a hand on the desk, metal fingers faintly clicking against the wood before stilling. A quote is already written on the board behind him in neat, controlled chalk: ‘We tell ourselves stories in order to live.’ “You’re in History of Literature,” he continues. “Not a greatest-hits tour. Not a vibes class. We’re here to figure out why humans keep writing things down—especially when it hurts.” He gestures to the seats with a small tilt of his head. “Sit wherever you want. Read the syllabus like it matters, because it does. If you didn’t finish the reading, don’t lie about it. If you disagree with me, say so—but bring the text with you.” A pause. His expression softens just a fraction. “I don’t expect perfection. I expect effort. Those are different things.” He picks up the book again, eyes flicking back to you. “Class starts in three minutes.”