college and Mom and Dad are running out of money. If I graduate early with high grades, I can get a full scholarship to graduate school. That way next year will be free.”
“And Harvard is letting you do this?” asked Mary.
“At first they said no. As a philosophy major, I’d be required to take a year-long junior colloquial and a year-long senior colloquial. Those couldn’t be squeezed into two semesters. But as it turns out, I’ve taken most of the courses required for a major in Near Eastern Languages and Literature—Hebrew, Aramaic, Mesopotamian thought. So I’ve switched majors. This year all I have to do is take sixteen courses and write a thesis in Near Eastern Languages and Literature.”
“That’s all ? ” Mary laughed.
“That’s all,” I assured her. “In my heart, I’m a philosophy major. That’s my fundamental intellectual identity.”
“How can you be accepted into a graduate philosophy program if you’re not a philosophy major?”
“That worries me, but maybe they’ll take me anyway.”
“Just because you’re cute?” she asked slyly.
“No, but by then I’ll have a cute girlfriend, and she’ll be able to convince them of my worth.”
“Really, Cornel, how are you going to pull it off?”
“I really don’t know.”
“So you’re making it up as you go along,” said Mary.
“A bluesman in training,” I said. “We’re moving through any way we can.”
T HAT WAS THE YEAR I FELL for Mary Johnson, fell in love so completely I hardly knew what hit me. I loved falling in love and the feelings it gave me. I loved loving a woman as strong and determined as Mary, loved seeing her absorb everything Harvard had to offer, loved having an intellectual companion and a lover who liked James Brown almost as much I did. Life reached a new level of happiness. I took the sixteen courses in those two semesters and passed with flying colors. I knew I had to keep moving so I applied to Princeton’s Ph.D. program in philosophy—then considered the best in the world—and was accepted on a full scholarship.
There’s one moment in that final undergraduate year that I’ll never forget: I was all set to go out and see Al Green at a nightclub in downtown Boston. He was hot as he could be with “Tired of Being Alone” and “Let’s Stay Together.” There’s no way I was going to miss my favorite soul balladeer. On my way out of the door, though, I just happened to flip open the first page of a book I’d picked up earlier in the day. It was Wittgenstein’s Vienna by Allan Janik and Stephen Toulmin, a depiction of the cultural world of Ludwig Wittgenstein that included classical composers Johannes Brahms and Gustav Mahler, and historical sociologist Max Weber. It wasn’t that I forgot about Brother Al—no one could ever forget Brother Al—but this dang book was absolutely riveting. I tried to stop reading, but couldn’t. Wittgenstein’s courage and genius got to the core of who I was and wanted to be. I never did get to Al Green’s show, but Wittgenstein’s performance in the text was astounding.
W HEN I GRADUATED MAGNA CUM LAUDE in three years, the Sacramento paper ran a long article on me with a big picture. They went over to interview Dad. They told him they needed thirty minutes to ask a battery of questions about how he had raised his children. But Dad being Dad broke it down beautifully. He said, “I don’t need thirty minutes. Fact is, I don’t even need one minute. I can give you the answer in four words. Be there for them . Give your children all the time they need.”
“That’s it?” asked the reporter.
“That’s it,” said Dad. “ Be there for them .”
And he was. He always was.
DAVID HUME AND
ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER IN
THE BROOKLYN NAVY YARD
I WAS KNEE-DEEP SURE-ENOUGH all-the-way in love. Mary Johnson had won my heart. I had won hers. We were so tight that the summer after ’d graduated, she invited me to live in her family house in Springfield Gardens,
“And Harvard is letting you do this?” asked Mary.
“At first they said no. As a philosophy major, I’d be required to take a year-long junior colloquial and a year-long senior colloquial. Those couldn’t be squeezed into two semesters. But as it turns out, I’ve taken most of the courses required for a major in Near Eastern Languages and Literature—Hebrew, Aramaic, Mesopotamian thought. So I’ve switched majors. This year all I have to do is take sixteen courses and write a thesis in Near Eastern Languages and Literature.”
“That’s all ? ” Mary laughed.
“That’s all,” I assured her. “In my heart, I’m a philosophy major. That’s my fundamental intellectual identity.”
“How can you be accepted into a graduate philosophy program if you’re not a philosophy major?”
“That worries me, but maybe they’ll take me anyway.”
“Just because you’re cute?” she asked slyly.
“No, but by then I’ll have a cute girlfriend, and she’ll be able to convince them of my worth.”
“Really, Cornel, how are you going to pull it off?”
“I really don’t know.”
“So you’re making it up as you go along,” said Mary.
“A bluesman in training,” I said. “We’re moving through any way we can.”
T HAT WAS THE YEAR I FELL for Mary Johnson, fell in love so completely I hardly knew what hit me. I loved falling in love and the feelings it gave me. I loved loving a woman as strong and determined as Mary, loved seeing her absorb everything Harvard had to offer, loved having an intellectual companion and a lover who liked James Brown almost as much I did. Life reached a new level of happiness. I took the sixteen courses in those two semesters and passed with flying colors. I knew I had to keep moving so I applied to Princeton’s Ph.D. program in philosophy—then considered the best in the world—and was accepted on a full scholarship.
There’s one moment in that final undergraduate year that I’ll never forget: I was all set to go out and see Al Green at a nightclub in downtown Boston. He was hot as he could be with “Tired of Being Alone” and “Let’s Stay Together.” There’s no way I was going to miss my favorite soul balladeer. On my way out of the door, though, I just happened to flip open the first page of a book I’d picked up earlier in the day. It was Wittgenstein’s Vienna by Allan Janik and Stephen Toulmin, a depiction of the cultural world of Ludwig Wittgenstein that included classical composers Johannes Brahms and Gustav Mahler, and historical sociologist Max Weber. It wasn’t that I forgot about Brother Al—no one could ever forget Brother Al—but this dang book was absolutely riveting. I tried to stop reading, but couldn’t. Wittgenstein’s courage and genius got to the core of who I was and wanted to be. I never did get to Al Green’s show, but Wittgenstein’s performance in the text was astounding.
W HEN I GRADUATED MAGNA CUM LAUDE in three years, the Sacramento paper ran a long article on me with a big picture. They went over to interview Dad. They told him they needed thirty minutes to ask a battery of questions about how he had raised his children. But Dad being Dad broke it down beautifully. He said, “I don’t need thirty minutes. Fact is, I don’t even need one minute. I can give you the answer in four words. Be there for them . Give your children all the time they need.”
“That’s it?” asked the reporter.
“That’s it,” said Dad. “ Be there for them .”
And he was. He always was.
DAVID HUME AND
ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER IN
THE BROOKLYN NAVY YARD
I WAS KNEE-DEEP SURE-ENOUGH all-the-way in love. Mary Johnson had won my heart. I had won hers. We were so tight that the summer after ’d graduated, she invited me to live in her family house in Springfield Gardens,
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