I often felt like an idiot at the University of Helsinki. I was preparing my first collection of poetry in the winter of 1980. A poet is meant to be a bohemian. I did not need a wallet. That was middle class.

I sat an exam on a lecture series given by Maija Lehtonen and went to get a grade for my study report book. I was worried. I had lost 100 Finnish markkas from a student loan payment that I had just received. A wallet was still something I did not want to have. A poet is meant to suffer. Professor Lehtonen asked me to sit down and then put her hand out. I dug out my study report book from my pocket. She opened it to mark the topic of the course and the grade for the exam. Her pen stopped in its tracks. The professor handed me the hundred markka bill and said “this probably does not belong to me.” The professor was too sophisticated to suspect me of bribery. I got a wallet.

I also took a course given by professor Annamari Sarajas. She returned my exam and congratulated me on my excellent answers. She did comment on one minor detail, however: the patronymic of Fyodor Dostoyevsky was Mikhailovich. Not Majorovich, as the student had written. It is Majorovich, I said. No, it is not, the professor said. It is Mikhailovich. It is Majorovich, I said. Sarajas stared at me and slowly said “then there must be misprints in my books.” I marched straight from the professor’s office to the library to check on the matter: Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky. His works include The Idiot.