My first and only F well in hand, the illusion I had of myself - that of a pristine jarred brain casting aspersions on greasy, cavorting bipeds - was obliterated. I was enrolled, then, in a series of what were (and may still be called) "bonehead" classes, which was apparently where they hoarded all the Twain. And I Am The Cheese, and Watership Down, books that played with modern language and perspective and voice, and played rough. There's really no doubt that my entire life turned on that point, and it never really stopped turning: the point at which Writing became decoupled from English.
I have no idea, but I'm glad that I'm not the only one who thinks so. Penny Arcade Tycho writes about his own experience surviving his expulsion from the smart kid lit classes, where they were "reading" Ulysses: