The Philosopher's Apprentice Read Free Page A

sipped. The fluid that entered my mouth, however, was not Hawthorne tap water but some metaphysical beverage drawn from the Nile by Sinuhe himself. It tasted sweet. I savored the sensation, then took another swallow. Why did I want to be a doctor of philosophy anyway? Would I jump through any conceivable hoop to join that dubious fellowship whose attention I had momentarily claimed? What quantity of self-respect was I willing to lose in acquiring this most conventional of prizes?
    â€œI believe I can best answer Dr. Pielmeister’s question with a few questions of my own,” I said at last. “They all begin with Sinuhe’s favorite word, ‘why.’”
    â€œSinuhe?” Dr. Girard said. “You mean from The Egyptian ?”
    â€œCorrect,” I said.
    â€œThat’s not a very good movie,” Dr. Girard said.
    â€œThe book was better,” Dr. Schwendeman said.
    â€œWhy,” I said, “do our postrationalist theologians, Dr. Pielmeister among them, expect us to prostrate ourselves before a deity who, by the Darwinian insight he claims to endorse, stands exposed as a kind of cosmic dilettante—”
    â€œThat is not the language of philosophy,” interrupted Pielmeister, wagging his finger.
    â€œâ€”a kind of cosmic dilettante, idly tinkering plants and animals into existence only to have them go extinct from the very environmental conditions he provided for them?”
    Delicate but palpable vibrations filled the stuffy air of Schneider Auditorium. The attendees shifted in their seats, delighted that the gladiator had mysteriously elected to insert his head into the lion’s mouth. My committee was likewise astir, wondering what demon had possessed this outwardly rational candidate.
    â€œWhy,” I continued, “was Dr. Pielmeister’s presumably competent God unable to produce the contemporary biosphere through any process other than the systematic creation and equally systematic obliteration of countless species?”
    Nervous laughter emerged here and there throughout the audience.
    â€œWhy,” I persisted, “would this same divine serial killer have begun his career spending thirteen billion years fashioning quadrillions of needless galaxies before finally starting on his pet project: singling out a minor planet in an obscure precinct of the Milky Way and seeding it with vain bipedal vertebrates condemned to wait indefinitely for the deity in question to disclose himself?”
    â€œMason, this isn’t going anywhere,” Carol Eberling asserted.
    â€œRight you are,” I said. “The show is over. Time to close the concession stand and sweep up the peanut shells. I would rather teach front-end alignment at an auto-mechanics school in Framingham than continue to cast my lot with higher education. And so, with all humility and a deep appreciation for the effort you’ve expended in reading my dissertation, I withdraw my candidacy.”
    â€œMason, no,” Dr. Eberling said through gritted teeth.
    â€œThat’s a terrible idea,” said Dr. Girard.
    â€œMost Nietzschean,” said Dr. Schwendeman.
    â€œWithdrawal accepted,” said Dr. Pielmeister.
    â€œGo back to your offices, good professors,” I concluded. “Pick up your paychecks. See who’s reviewed your latest book in the Journal of Astonishingly Articulate Academic Discourse. But from this moment on, Sinuhe is his own man.”
    I rose and, stepping toward the footlights, dipped my head in a theatrical bow. The audience members variously clapped, booed, hissed, and cheered. As I rushed down the aisle and into the foyer, a young man drew abreast of me and asked if I wanted to star in his student film about Sigmund Freud’s first sexual encounter. I gave him my e-mail address, then hurried into the street.
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    EVERY COLLEGE CAMPUS has its beer hall, its rathskeller, its underground den of inconsequential iniquity—someplace