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Authors: Colleen McCullough
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they should confine themselves to medicine than read metaphysics for monkeys!”
A small, startled silence fell: Tinkerman had sounded too personal, and several of his auditors resolved to deflect him.
“I’ve known medical students who read Augustine, Machiavelli and Federico Garcia Lorca,” said M.M., smiling easily.
“Perhaps they’re a little off the track of this discussion, Tom, but if novelists like Norman Mailer and Philip Roth were offered to you, surely you’d publish them?” Bursar Townsend asked.
“No, I would not! Never! ” Tinkerman snapped. “Disgusting, filthy, pornographic trash! The only philosophy they can offer is in the gutter!” His chest heaved, his eyes flashed.
“Ah!” M.M. exclaimed. “Food! Tom, your blood sugar seems a trifle low. We are shamefully neglecting Roger and Henry, not to mention the ladies. My apologies.”
“The man’s a Dominican in modern academic robes,” said the outgoing Head Scholar to Secretary Hank Howard, not bothering to keep his voice down.
Academic robes were also absorbing Solidad Vasquez, Annabelle Daiman and Desdemona. The two first-timers were overawed at the fantastic array.
“Is there anyone not in academic robes?” Solidad asked.
“By tradition, the only ladies have Chubb posts, like Dr. Millie Hunter. The Town men wear theirs not to be entirely outclassed,” said Desdemona, looking at her generous plate of smoked salmon with brown bread-and-butter enthusiastically. “Carmine has a Master’s from Chubb, and I see Fernando is in Master’s robes from — where?”
“University of Florida.” Solidad giggled. “It isn’t fair, but I notice that it’s a Holloman joke that any Florida school is a place that awards degrees in ballroom dancing and underwaterbasket weaving. Well, Fernando’s degree is in sociology, and it’s a respected one.”
Annabelle looked insufferably smug. “Derek’s doctorate is from Chubb,” she said.
“The hall does look as if it’s populated by peacocks,” said Desdemona. “The gold detail on some of the robes is truly astonishing. And ermine! Head Scholar Tinkerman’s purple-and-gold is the Chubb School of Divinity.”
“So that’s what’s wrong with him!” Nessie O’Donnell called.
“It’s so pretty,” said Annabelle, gazing around. “What’s the scarlet and ermine?”
But that, no one knew, though all agreed that its wearer stood out brilliantly.
Fernando was quizzing Carmine. “Is that really black guy on the high table Dr. Jim Hunter?”
“Yes. His wife’s the only woman wearing academic robes.”
“I noticed them coming in, each wearing the same gown. A handsome couple. Man, he’s huge !”
“Champion boxer and wrestler ten years ago. Came in handy.”
“I bet.”
Fernando’s remark about the Hunters as a handsome couple had intrigued Carmine; people usually didn’t see them that way, and he applauded Fernando’s perception.
But inevitably his attention went back to Dr. Thomas Tarleton Tinkerman, looking magnificent in his Doctor of Divinity robes. Well, Carmine amended, he was the kind of man who would manage to make sackcloth and ashes lookgreat. Tall and ramrod straight, he gave an impression of considerable physical strength — no nerdy weakling, he. More like a West Point graduate full bird colonel who divided his mental energies between stretching for the next promotion and coping with a new attack of hemorrhoids. Tonight was definitely a hemorrhoid night: maybe not Martin Luther, but Napoleon Bonaparte?
Handsome in a Mel Ferrer way, chiseled features that said he had the asceticism of a monk. Grey hair went well with light eyes. The corners of his mouth turned down as if he despaired of human frailty in the full knowledge that he himself had none. Conceited! That was the word for Tinkerman.
The whole of C.U.P. knew that he didn’t want to publish A Helical God . It was written for ignoramuses by an ape, not a scholar, and it cast doubt not so much on
A small, startled silence fell: Tinkerman had sounded too personal, and several of his auditors resolved to deflect him.
“I’ve known medical students who read Augustine, Machiavelli and Federico Garcia Lorca,” said M.M., smiling easily.
“Perhaps they’re a little off the track of this discussion, Tom, but if novelists like Norman Mailer and Philip Roth were offered to you, surely you’d publish them?” Bursar Townsend asked.
“No, I would not! Never! ” Tinkerman snapped. “Disgusting, filthy, pornographic trash! The only philosophy they can offer is in the gutter!” His chest heaved, his eyes flashed.
“Ah!” M.M. exclaimed. “Food! Tom, your blood sugar seems a trifle low. We are shamefully neglecting Roger and Henry, not to mention the ladies. My apologies.”
“The man’s a Dominican in modern academic robes,” said the outgoing Head Scholar to Secretary Hank Howard, not bothering to keep his voice down.
Academic robes were also absorbing Solidad Vasquez, Annabelle Daiman and Desdemona. The two first-timers were overawed at the fantastic array.
“Is there anyone not in academic robes?” Solidad asked.
“By tradition, the only ladies have Chubb posts, like Dr. Millie Hunter. The Town men wear theirs not to be entirely outclassed,” said Desdemona, looking at her generous plate of smoked salmon with brown bread-and-butter enthusiastically. “Carmine has a Master’s from Chubb, and I see Fernando is in Master’s robes from — where?”
“University of Florida.” Solidad giggled. “It isn’t fair, but I notice that it’s a Holloman joke that any Florida school is a place that awards degrees in ballroom dancing and underwaterbasket weaving. Well, Fernando’s degree is in sociology, and it’s a respected one.”
Annabelle looked insufferably smug. “Derek’s doctorate is from Chubb,” she said.
“The hall does look as if it’s populated by peacocks,” said Desdemona. “The gold detail on some of the robes is truly astonishing. And ermine! Head Scholar Tinkerman’s purple-and-gold is the Chubb School of Divinity.”
“So that’s what’s wrong with him!” Nessie O’Donnell called.
“It’s so pretty,” said Annabelle, gazing around. “What’s the scarlet and ermine?”
But that, no one knew, though all agreed that its wearer stood out brilliantly.
Fernando was quizzing Carmine. “Is that really black guy on the high table Dr. Jim Hunter?”
“Yes. His wife’s the only woman wearing academic robes.”
“I noticed them coming in, each wearing the same gown. A handsome couple. Man, he’s huge !”
“Champion boxer and wrestler ten years ago. Came in handy.”
“I bet.”
Fernando’s remark about the Hunters as a handsome couple had intrigued Carmine; people usually didn’t see them that way, and he applauded Fernando’s perception.
But inevitably his attention went back to Dr. Thomas Tarleton Tinkerman, looking magnificent in his Doctor of Divinity robes. Well, Carmine amended, he was the kind of man who would manage to make sackcloth and ashes lookgreat. Tall and ramrod straight, he gave an impression of considerable physical strength — no nerdy weakling, he. More like a West Point graduate full bird colonel who divided his mental energies between stretching for the next promotion and coping with a new attack of hemorrhoids. Tonight was definitely a hemorrhoid night: maybe not Martin Luther, but Napoleon Bonaparte?
Handsome in a Mel Ferrer way, chiseled features that said he had the asceticism of a monk. Grey hair went well with light eyes. The corners of his mouth turned down as if he despaired of human frailty in the full knowledge that he himself had none. Conceited! That was the word for Tinkerman.
The whole of C.U.P. knew that he didn’t want to publish A Helical God . It was written for ignoramuses by an ape, not a scholar, and it cast doubt not so much on
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