When I was a teenager, I decided to become a philosopher. I had many questions about life, as do most teenagers, but I did not hear the answers to such questions in church, nor in school, nor on the baseball diamond, nor in the woods. For a time, I believed there were probably no answers. The only answer was to have fun, now, in the moment, enjoy life. The exciting things in life seemed out of reach, and so fantasy, and periodic reckless experiments, provided momentary thrills—then the emptiness returned. The most long-lasting thrill that I experienced was the thrill of thought: to think great thoughts, to express great thoughts, to write great thoughts. When I was sixteen, I wrote a novel, a brief, not-very-good novel, but one that was satisfying nevertheless because it was about a young neophyte learning the truth from a wise old man. I yearned for this. To have a wise old man tell me the truth. The problem was, that I did not know any wise old men. About the closest I came was my mother’s father, my surviving grandfather, who was very old, thin, cross-eyed, yet quiet, possibly thoughtful. I would sometimes join him in his backyard, where he had a huge vegetable garden. My grandfather said little, but walked about gathering the vegetables and pruning branches; I followed, watching. One time, my grandfather gave me some books without comment. The books were a three-volume biography of Abraham Lincoln by Carl Sandberg. The books appeared well-used, so clearly my grandfather had read them again and again. They must have been his favorite books, and now he was giving them to me—perhaps his wisdom and Carl Sandberg’s wisdom and Abraham Lincoln’s wisdom would combine to provide the sixteen-year-old inquisitor with wisdom itself. And so, despite the fact that most of the books I read were about sports, I began to read Sandberg’s portrayal of Lincoln, who was a humorous, shy, witty, thoughtful, caring, empathetic man who became President of the United States. My grandfather had the same body-type, the same apparent demeanor, as Abraham Lincoln, though as far as I knew my grandfather had only been a custodian for his working years. Sandberg’s Lincoln cared for people, for all people of whatever color, and for this care he became a martyr, a sacrifice to the principles of equality and freedom.
Sandberg’s Lincoln by means of my grandfather’s gift opened up a new world for me. It was a world of thought, of stories, of people, of history. It was a world of the distant and not-so-distant past, which was huge, vast, so vast as to be unknowable. Only a few things about the past could be known. Most past experiences were not known, would never be known. But the possibilities inherent in the past, the countless lives and experiences, were simply too tempting to turn away from. And so I began a quest to know, to read. I was not a gifted intellectual, merely an average student, but I had a desire to know. I began to read science fiction, much of which was based on past human experiences. I read philosophy. The summer after my senior year in high school, as I prepared to go to the university, I read Plato’s Republic—and didn’t understand a word. But the whole idea of being able to read the great thoughts of a philosopher from over two thousand years ago, to wallow in the wisdom of the past, was irresistible, and I continued to try to read great books. I particularly enjoyed reading Greek mythology. I read Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, and not only did I understand these works, but I loved them—the stories of battle, of heroes, of gods and goddesses, of monsters, of revenge, all set in the distant past in a distant land.
By this time in life, when I had turned eighteen and was preparing for the experience of the university, I had turned away from sports, worked part-time jobs, drove around the city at night with friends, listened to rock music with an intellectual twist, and generally had decided to embrace the garb of the philosopher. I enjoyed thinking of himself as Spock, the Vulcan on the television show, Star Trek, who was emotionless, always logical, a walking brain. I enjoyed, likewise, thinking that the mind could elevate me above all the cares and questions of life. It sometimes worked. When in July, 1975, my grandfather became terribly ill, and I went to the hospital to visit the him, I found him in his bed, partially clothed, senseless, thrashing about in convulsions. It was deeply disturbing, but to a rational, logical person, acceptable as the consequence of life, and I left the hospital as emotionless as possible, as would a philosopher.
Sandberg’s Lincoln by means of my grandfather’s gift opened up a new world for me. It was a world of thought, of stories, of people, of history. It was a world of the distant and not-so-distant past, which was huge, vast, so vast as to be unknowable. Only a few things about the past could be known. Most past experiences were not known, would never be known. But the possibilities inherent in the past, the countless lives and experiences, were simply too tempting to turn away from. And so I began a quest to know, to read. I was not a gifted intellectual, merely an average student, but I had a desire to know. I began to read science fiction, much of which was based on past human experiences. I read philosophy. The summer after my senior year in high school, as I prepared to go to the university, I read Plato’s Republic—and didn’t understand a word. But the whole idea of being able to read the great thoughts of a philosopher from over two thousand years ago, to wallow in the wisdom of the past, was irresistible, and I continued to try to read great books. I particularly enjoyed reading Greek mythology. I read Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, and not only did I understand these works, but I loved them—the stories of battle, of heroes, of gods and goddesses, of monsters, of revenge, all set in the distant past in a distant land.
By this time in life, when I had turned eighteen and was preparing for the experience of the university, I had turned away from sports, worked part-time jobs, drove around the city at night with friends, listened to rock music with an intellectual twist, and generally had decided to embrace the garb of the philosopher. I enjoyed thinking of himself as Spock, the Vulcan on the television show, Star Trek, who was emotionless, always logical, a walking brain. I enjoyed, likewise, thinking that the mind could elevate me above all the cares and questions of life. It sometimes worked. When in July, 1975, my grandfather became terribly ill, and I went to the hospital to visit the him, I found him in his bed, partially clothed, senseless, thrashing about in convulsions. It was deeply disturbing, but to a rational, logical person, acceptable as the consequence of life, and I left the hospital as emotionless as possible, as would a philosopher.