Professor Phyllis Dornberger – my PhD thesis adviser – and I certainly had our share of disagreements. About everything.
I could have been intimidated. I mean, here was a lady who read the dictionary on her lunch hour like it was People Magazine.
But I was confident and stood my ground, with naïve posturing that was equal parts youthful impudence and iconoclastic exuberance.
Dornberger was a logical positivist. I’m an existential relativist.
It should have been no contest.
Indeed, it wasn’t.
Yes, in the end, she got the best of me. The price for my impatience, my lack of self-control, my smug display of tactlessness, my colossal tactical faux pas in the requisite art of jockeying for advantage – which is really all philosophical discourse is about anyway – was asymmetrical in the extreme, with no room for negotiation, no room for remediation, no recourse or appeal. Philosophers don’t mess around. Especially logical positivists.
My comment was innocent enough.
But what floats frivolously in casual repartee bubbles like the caustic acid of vitriol and mockery on a page – especially an intra-departmental memo.
What can I say in my defense?
Too much bubbly spirits is sometimes a good excuse. But in this case, a roll of duct tape with the Kölsch pale ale would have helped to mitigate my infantile error in judgment. Hindsight is so powerful but ultimately useless.
I now know . . .
I never should have called Professor Dornberger an insatiable proof sucker searching for the perfect syllogism, if only she could figure out how to deep throat a syllo.
Yes, this was the shameful closing scene of my career as a philosopher . . .
