Or England, for that matter. To some, he was a quintessential genius whom scholars idolized for having earned seven Oxford degrees by the time he was nineteen. To others, Roderick was nothing more than an overeducated prick. In truth, he simply held no patience for those who weren’t as devoted to the art of learning as he. His fondest memory, even as a tot, was tucking himself against the skirts of his governess at the base of her chair, and demanding she read his favorite story, The Life and Most Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. The moment she’d finish, he’d promptly supply, “Again. Only slower.” After all, the story should have lasted six days. Not four. The woman would dutifully page to the beginning and read Robinson’s story all over again, drawing out the words in an effort to better please him. The moment she’d finish, he would tug on her skirts and demand, “Again. Please?” The poor woman had no choice but to commence reading it again and again.
