I twisted my own arm; I was to interview the world's "most interesting living philosopher." While I had no particularly pressing questions to ask him, nor had I any special experience or acumen in "talking shop" with a famous academic and political revolutionary, a transcribed tte--tte seemed apropos.
In the course catalogue of one West Coast university, one particular class caught my eye. I did not recognize the name of instructor. Not until I traipsed around the college bookstore, looking for a bit of Nietzsche (which seemed a typically undergraduate thing to do), would I become suspicious. On too many books was his named splayed all over the spine: not only near the top, as author, but also in the middle, as title. So he was the leading philosopher around.
My expectations of his class soon expected the world. I imagined apocryphal political rallies, factions debating the merits of Hegelian dialectic; or like some "Three-Tenors" performance, 100 minutes of silent reverential awe followed by an eight-minute standing ovation, with raucous bravos and encores; or like Zen training, the master looking profoundly into the eyes of each of his novices, clapping with one hand, hearing trees falling in the woods, his eager apprentices nodding bending their minds into paradoxical impossibilities. Mu.
mWith my mouth flapping a bit too much in the wind, I told everybody of my good luck. I gloated over the certainty of instant enlightenment in the ways of contemporary thought, and over the possibility of a recommendation to beat all recommendations.
Winter term began, and things were different: lectures turned out to be quite docile -- indeed, fairly normal. Given without notes, and with plenty of time for inquiries, each ended twenty minutes before the allotted hour. He assumes a natural air, lending the classroom a completely comfortable atmosphere -- he strides around the front of the room, sometimes leans against the chalk board, sometimes hunches over the lectern, sometimes sits on the table, legs a-swingin'. Questions asked receive near-perfect answers. Logistical considerations quickly resolve themselves, and with an understanding of the students as fully autonomous adult individuals gathered to listen and learn, not to be condescended, underestimated, or annoyed.
At the same time--an aura of VIP-ness enrobes him. He exudes the presence of somebody who is somebody, and has been so for a long time. Not a weariness, no, nor even disinterestedness; rather, a "this is what I do; this is what I'm quite good at; but this is just the tip of the iceberg, dudes." Almost like Clark Kent when he is not (good Nietzschean double entendre?). He learns/asks no names, he does not talk about himself, or relate witty anecdotes. Much like a "lecture." This aura, even if imagined, lends itself to a sense of inapproachability, a funny type of celebrity. This modest but evident carriage speaks of the especial, the quotidian that nearly, but does not quite hide the un-quotidian, the go-to person who makes things in this small but lite and academically important world happen.
Despite all this (or in spite of all this), I had a curious desire to talk with and record him. At least I would be able to look back in twenty years and say to a colleague, "Yah, back in the days when I was hanging with ---- yep, those were crazy days."
I emailed him. A brief, polite response set the date, place, and time, one week hence. I read three of his books. I prepared four pages of questions. On the afternoon of our meeting, I cleared my throat, and entered his office.
Not quite. I waited a moment outside his office, for he was not in. When he came up the hallway, he passed right by me (I was the only one around, and obviously waiting for him) and entered his office. Somewhat confused, I followed half-a-minute behind, knocking on his open door. He looked up, with a questioning -- but, uncurious -- glance, and said, "Hello?" Proper formalities ensued, and I took my seat.
Fifteen or forty minutes later, I left with a nod. Not so great. From the time I sat down, no "non-business" words were exchanged. I had anticipated good times being had by all. Such was not to be our fate. I could tell by his slightly discouraged, partially impatient glaze that a quip about three dozen philosophers and a critical theorist at a cocktail party would be neither obligatory nor advisable. Personal questions (what books did you read as a child?) would not find a seat at the table. So I asked, tactfully, some of my prepared questions. Answers were quite satisfactory, but did not turn dialogic. I tripped over a few follow-up questions: I had lost face. The four pages of prepared questions soon ran out or became irrelevant. The extent of his curiosity in me was: "So, you returning to Hanover at the end of this term?" I was not quite sure how to respond, if I even understood what he meant. I answered: "It sure is chilly back there."
I took the transcription. Otherwise, I await my return to sunny New Hampshire. The weather may be lacking a few degrees here and there, but in every other regard, it's an atypical undergraduate place to be.
