The Secret Life of the Intelligentsia

By Tom Dibblee
Staff Writer and Consultant

Three years ago, I was walking back from a party at the Smith Campus Center when I got to chatting with a bevy of Pomona freshmen. When they discovered that I was a CMC freshman, they asked what I thought of Pomona girls. I thought that this might be some sort of flirtation, so I told them that I liked Pomona girls just fine. I asked the next natural question, “What do you think of CMC guys?”

This was when the conversation got ugly. They all kind of wheezed, gagged, and coughed. At this early point in my college career, I was genuinely confused. They said that they liked Pomona guys more, because, among other reasons, “they wear sweaters even when it’s warm out.”

Not until this semester did I finally understand the remark. What does it mean to wear a sweater when it is warm out? Is this the same sort of situation as when CMCers wear their most simpering outfits of black shirts with silver ties to give presentations in Intro to Accounting? This makes no sense to me. When it’s warm out I wear short sleeves. This is why Southern California is great. But people who wear sweaters when it is warm out must like to be comfortable in that librarian sort of way, perhaps with a book, maybe some Ovid or a little Chartreuse. In a climate where sweaters and tweed are unnecessary most of the time, how does one identify oneself as a member of the intelligentsia?

This semester I’ve had the privilege of taking a super intellectual English course at Pomona. In the class I’ve gained more insight into the interesting disposition of Pomona’s intelligentsia. Eager to wrestle with ideas, unafraid to grimace while coaxing the most complex thoughts into words, the class is constantly pushing the limits of conversation.

	Byron.

In discussions like these, there are a few rules everyone must follow. Never end a sentence with a preposition. This is one of the worst things one can do. I don’t think anyone has done it yet, but if it were to happen I think I would have to quit using the subjunctive forever. My classmates are so scared of ending a sentence with a preposition that they will go so far as to adjust lines from original texts. Take, for example, this little ditty:
Oh, why hath not the mind
Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own?

That’s from Book V of Wordsworth’s Prelude, of course. While glossing these lines, one student did a little editing job (even the masters miss some details) and said, “Some element on which to stamp her image.”

The more obvious the ability of not ending sentences with prepositions, the better it is for the rest of the class. This is because it reminds everyone to be alert. Once someone makes it obvious in which part of the sentence the preposition must be placed, everyone else chimes in with their own prepositional migrations.

The same phenomenon exists for the word “one.” This is to say that one does not ask “where is the biffy,” but rather, “where might one find the biffy?” Just like with the preposition, the first use of “one” tends to set off a tidal wave that carries all those “you's” right out the window.

Being a member of the intelligentsia, however, is more than quick diction and grammatical glamour; it is a lifestyle. This is where the sweater vignette comes into play. For further analysis on Pomona’s intellectual elite, I turned to one of the nation’s premier critics of the collegiate intelligentsia: one Byron Fuller. Byron, the 1998 Library Prize winner at Groton and Separated Editor of The Dartmouth Review, considers himself too unfashionable to qualify for the intelligentsia, instead calling himself a “rogue scholar at best, eschewing allegiances and distrusting groups.” He currently works in Philadelphia as a wine purchaser for Total Wine and More.

Byron epitomizes the demeanor of a jaded intellectual. “If people wear sweaters when it's boiling out, I usually make fun of them as well. I mean, what the f-ck? Clearly nothing more than a means of securing group identity for insecure muddleheads who too rarely take an alcoholiday.” And of his own style? “V-neck sweater, collared shirt, and grey wool slacks are pretty much uniform for me any time other than summer or safari.”

But where lies the heart of this lifestyle dedicated to intellectual superiority on all fronts? “If there's anything that defines my way of life, it's a commitment to brandy. I add it to my cocktails, I drink it in the morning, I quaff it when I call off work to stay home eating peas in bed with southern girls. Alabamans are considerably more entertaining in the sack.”