:: 27
you speak in ruptured anguish
of how your soul seeps of ebony hues
i glimpse into your vacant sight and wonder
how green eyes can be so blue
-
/ florence /
"I am Professor Henderson and this is Philosophy 150," He announces, adjusting his large circular black-rimmed glasses on his nose, "If either of those facts is news to you, then now would be your turn to leave."
From the corner of my eye, I see two guys standing up to grab their things and quickly rushing to get out of the room. Professor Henderson chuckles under his breath, and so does the whole class.
I don't breathe a sound.
"Well then," he continues, "I know some of you here are in hopes of satisfying your elective requirements. If you're looking for an easy grade without much work, then, now would also be your turn to leave."
No one budges.
For the first time since I entered the class, I used this moment as an opportunity to take my first glimpse at Professor Henderson: the square ruddy face, the hooked nose; the receding hairline; the distinct cheekbones; the angular jaw; the wall of thick, tousled, salt-and-pepper hair.
All of a sudden, he gestured his hands to all of us in the room, "See, you've now enrolled at a university, thus, you'll be expected to produce university-level work."
Suddenly, I hear the guy sporting a brown beanie in front of me snorting loudly. "Pftt, screw that, I'm out." He stood up and sauntered out of the room.
Professor Henderson sighed as he rolled his eyes, "There's always one."
He stepped on to the podium and cleared his throat, motioning to the board behind him. "Michel Foucault, Bertrand Russel, Richard Dawkins, Noam Chomsky. The list goes on," His gaze scanned the room with wide eyes then continued to speak, "Philosophers, poets, scientists, authors, towering intellects, all of them." A pause. "But what do they all have in common?"
Everyone looked at each other. No one even knew the kind of people Henderson's list of so-called 'intellectuals' entailed. Until a girl with a pixie haircut boldly raised her hand.
Professor Henderson nodded. "Yes?"
She smirked, "They're all dead."
"Well, that would be technically incorrect," He raised an eyebrow and clasped his hands together, "Mr. Dawkins and Mr. Chomsky are still very much alive." He looked expectantly at us. "Anyone else? ...No one?"
An ephemeral pause.
"Well, they are, or were..atheists," he said, "Based on the sixteenth century French 'athiesme', from the Greek 'theos' meaning 'God', and from the prefix 'a' meaning, as it always does in Greek, 'without'. In short, each of the names I mentioned took the strong position that there is no God, as opposed to the weak position of agnosticism. 'Gnostic', from the Greek 'gnosos', to 'know', and again, with the prefix 'a' meaning to not know, or more accurately, to doubt the existence of a supreme being."
"This semester, I propose that we refuse to waste our limited time together debating the existence of the big man in the sky, the myth of a benevolent, omniscient, all-powerful supernatural being," he smiled slyly, "I must say I am a firm believer that God does not exist, well, other than in the depths of our forebears' imaginations. He was a useful fairy tale in ages gone by, when his fiery anger was used to explain away plagues and crop failures, diseases and disasters, which we now ascribe to bacteria and viruses, chromosomal disorders, and plate tectonics. In short, science and reason have supplanted superstition, and we are all the better for it."
YOU ARE READING
masochist // h.s
Fanfiction[au] a fateful tragedy in which a broken girl with a desolate heart meets an unceremonious boy amidst learning that pain has changed them into something they never meant to be.
