“Gilbert, you should read Jean-Paul Sartre’s essay on Jewish identity. It would wake you up to your dilemma.”
“I didn’t realize that I had one, frankly.”
“Sartre says that someone’s Jewish if the world regards him a Jew. And that means, Jason, you can be a blond, eat bacon on Yom Kippur, wear your preppie clothes, play squash — it doesn’t change a thing. The world will still consider you a Jew.”
“Hey, look, so far, the only guy that’s ever given me grief on this whole business has been you, my friend.”
And yet Jason realized inwardly that what he’d just stated was not quite the truth. For had he not experienced a little “problem” vis-a-vis the Yale Admissions Office?
“Okay,” D. D. concluded as he buttoned up his coat, “if you want to go on living like an ostrich, it’s your privilege.
But sooner or later you’ll learn.” And in parting, he added sarcastically, “Have a good breakfast.”
“Thanks,” Jason called cheerily, “and don’t forget to pray for me.”
The old man gazed at the wine-dark sea of students reverently awaiting his comments on Odysseus decision to sail homeward after ten years of breathless encounters with women, monsters, and monstrous women.
He was standing on the stage of Sanders Theater, the only Harvard building large enough — or indeed appropriate — to house the lectures of Professor John H. Finley, Jr., chosen by Olympus to convey the glory that was Greece to the hoi polloi of Cambridge. Indeed, such was his charismatic eloquence that many of the hundreds who entered Humanities 2 in September as philistines emerged by Christmas as passionate philhellenes.
Thus it was that on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10:00 A.M., fully one-quarter of the entire population of Harvard College gathered to hear the great man’s lectures on the Epic from Homer to Milton. Everyone seemed to have a favorite vantage point for viewing Finley. Andrew Eliot and Jason Gilbert preferred the balcony. Danny Rossi, killing two birds with one stone, would alter his position frequently since he wanted to master the acoustics of the hall, venue for Harvard’s major concerts and even the occasional — visit by the Boston Symphony.
Ted Lambros always sat in the first row, lest he miss a single winged word. He had come to Harvard already wanting to major in Latin and Greek, but Finley’s survey endowed the prospect with mystical grandeur that filled him with euphoria as well as ethnic pride.
Today Finley was discussing Odysseus’ departure from the enchanted isle of the nymph Calypso, despite her passionate pleas and promises to grant him eternal life. “Imagine —” Finley breathed to his rapt auditors. He then paused while all wondered what he would ask them to conjure.
“Imagine our hero is offered an unending idyll with a nymph who will remain forever young. Yet, he forsakes it all to return to a poor island and a woman who, Calypso explicitly reminds him, is fast approaching middle age, which no cosmetic can embellish. A rare, tempting proposition, one cannot deny. But what is Odysseus’ reaction?
He then paced back and forth, and recited without book, clearly translating from the Greek as he went along:
“Goddess, I know that everything you say is true and that clever Penelope is no match for your face and figure. But she is after all a mortal and you divine and ageless. Yet
He stopped pacing and walked slowly and deliberately to the edge of the stage.
“Here,” he said, at a whisper that was nonetheless audible in the farthest corner, “is the quintessential message of the
A thousand pencils poised in readiness to transcribe the crucial words to come.
“In, as it were, leaving an enchanted — and one must presume pleasantly tropical — isle to return to the cold winter winds of, shall we say, Brookline, Massachusetts, Odysseus forsakes immortality for — identity. In other words, the imperfections of the human state are outweighed by the glory of human love.”
There was a brief pause while the audience waited for Finley to draw breath before daring to do so themselves.
And then applause. Slowly the spell was broken as students marched out the various Sanders Theater exits. Ted Lambros was close to tears and felt he had to say something to the master. But it took him a few seconds to gather his courage. By this time, the nimble academic had donned his tan raincoat and fedora and had reached the tall arched gateway.
Ted approached him diffidently. As he did he was amazed that, on terra firma, this man of such great stature was actually of normal height.
“Sir, if you’ll permit me,” he began, “that was the most inspiring lecture I’ve ever heard. I mean, I’m just a freshman, but I’m going to major in classics, and I’ll bet you’ve made a thousand converts in there …, uh, sir.”
He knew he was rambling gauchely, but Finley was accustomed to such reverential clumsiness. And in any case he was pleased.
“A freshman and already decided on the classics?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Lambros, sir. Theodore Lambros, ’58.”
“Ah,” said Finley, “
Before Ted could even thank him, Finley turned on his — heels and marched off into the October wind, reciting Pindar all the way.
Jason woke at the sound of someone in great distress.
He glanced quickly at his night table. It was just after 2:00 A.M. From across the suite, he heard muffled sobbing and frightened cries of, “No, no!”
He leapt out of bed and rushed across to D. D.’s door, the source of all those tormented noises.
Knocking softly, Jason asked, “David, are you okay?”
The sobbing stopped abruptly and there was only silence. Jason knocked again and rephrased his question.
“Are you all right in there?”
Through the closed door came the curt response, “Go away, Gilbert. Leave me alone.” But it was in a strangely anguished tone of voice.
“Listen, D. D., if you don’t open up I’m going to break in.”
After a second he heard the scraping of a chair. A moment later the door opened a crack. And his roommate peeked out nervously. Jason could perceive that he had been at his desk studying.
“What do you want?” snapped D. D.
“I heard noises,” Jason replied. “I thought you were in some kind of pain.”
“I just fell asleep for a minute and had a sort of nightmare. It’s nothing.
And I’d be grateful if you’d let me study.” He closed the door again.
Jason still would not retreat.
“Hey, listen, D. D., you don’t have to be pre-med to know that people can go nuts from not sleeping. Haven’t you studied enough for one night?”
The door opened again.
