I should have enemies, no? Shouldn't there be a assembly of assassins plotting my demise? Shouldn't there be violent, enraged mobs awaiting me outside my office?

Instead, Rémi says, my fellow faculty members bestow me with tenure; they buy me coffee that isn't poisoned; they send me their students with pencils and pens instead of properly equipping them with daggers and swords.

Where are my murderers? Where are the men who will make me a martyr?
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