During my senior year at Tulane, I had my first experience with a cult of personality.
My creative-writing professor was a campus god, the closest thing the school had to a resident genius. His name was not Kenneth Schlichter, but that’s what I’ll call him here. His beard grew long beneath his chin, but his cheeks were smooth, an antiquated hairstyle that gave him the aura of an old-time transcendentalist. His eyes were small and hard; his demeanor, arrogant and mean. He handled students as if handling creepy-crawlies.
