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Authors: Zoltan Istvan
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face was
neutral. No, not neutral, thought the professor, but indifferent. He was
downright unconcerned.
“Yet this paper, Jethro,” Rindall
said, holding up the manuscript portentously, “this is so highly infectious, so
appallingly antisocial, it's hard to even accept as a reasonable answer to the
assignment. In fact, it's hard to believe it belongs to the human race. Your
so-called ‘omnipotender’ is monstrous, immoral, and inhuman. It goes against
virtually every great principle of civility that society has ever reached. It’s
decidedly evil. I have always encouraged originality, but this is ludicrous. I
don’t know what to say except, hopefully, you didn’t really mean to turn this in,
in light of the fact that your other papers were excellent—at least from a
technical point of view, when reviewing and critiquing other philosophers.”
Jethro stared at the professor,
silently.
“Well, say something, son. This is
very serious. This is Victoria University for God’s sake, and you’re in the
leading philosophy department in the world. It didn’t get to be like that
because of vicious nonsense like your essay.”
During the past two centuries, many
of the world’s most influential thinkers studied or taught in Victoria’s
Philosophy Hall, a nondescript brick building that housed the university’s
philosophy department. It had been nicknamed “The Idea Factory of the West.”
But to Jethro, the pantheon of great thinkers seemed like a worn old club of fools,
pretenders, and religiously biased speculators. They were like so many of the
professors Jethro knew at Victoria: smart, articulate, witty, charismatic—but
with few solid ideas to stand on. And none had teeth to bite anything. Teeth ,
Jethro thought, silently grinding his own — what’s the point if we can’t
bite?
“Well, what do you have to say for
yourself?” the professor asked. "The words in your essay are
unacceptable."
Jethro watched him for a long time,
then slowly answered, “My words define a coming new species. Most humans will
reject them because they feel threatened and don't understand. Most humans are
cowardly idiots."
"Eh?"
"And those other papers I
turned in were extremely painful to write. I didn’t agree with the ideas. But
my job as a student was to follow the assignment and interpret those people. Given
your philosophical parameters, I did the job.”
Surprised, the professor squinted
his right eye and tightened his lips.
“The last assignment was on my
book, Discourse on Divine Instrumentalism— a national bestseller, just in
case you've forgotten. That was extremely painful?” the professor asked,
feeling the need to defend himself in front of his students.
Jethro leaned forward, rallied out
of his passivity, and said, “Are you being serious? That paper was the most
painful thing to write in four years of college. More so because so many others
liked and agreed with your ideas. The entire book was awful, full of moronic
drivel.”
Students moved carefully, edgily in
their seats. This was not how one spoke to the chair of Victoria’s philosophy
department, who the USA Daily Tribune named as one of the 100 most
influential people in the world. Especially in light of how even the slightest
positive recommendation from this professor would mean a guaranteed acceptance
to any graduate school in America—or the clinching of a high-profile,
high-paying job.
“An explanation is now due, Mr.
Knights,” the instructor said, trying to remain calm, underscoring the ferocity
growing in him.
“If you insist,” Jethro said, and
sighed. “Your book takes off where St. Augustine finishes. Back in the Dark
Ages, back when toilet paper was still centuries away—let alone a microchip
capable of processing a trillion bytes, or a plutonium-powered robot exploring
Jupiter's moons. It outlines and defends an imagined divinity—worse, a
commercialized Judeo-Christian manifestation—by some fairytale inversion
neutral. No, not neutral, thought the professor, but indifferent. He was
downright unconcerned.
“Yet this paper, Jethro,” Rindall
said, holding up the manuscript portentously, “this is so highly infectious, so
appallingly antisocial, it's hard to even accept as a reasonable answer to the
assignment. In fact, it's hard to believe it belongs to the human race. Your
so-called ‘omnipotender’ is monstrous, immoral, and inhuman. It goes against
virtually every great principle of civility that society has ever reached. It’s
decidedly evil. I have always encouraged originality, but this is ludicrous. I
don’t know what to say except, hopefully, you didn’t really mean to turn this in,
in light of the fact that your other papers were excellent—at least from a
technical point of view, when reviewing and critiquing other philosophers.”
Jethro stared at the professor,
silently.
“Well, say something, son. This is
very serious. This is Victoria University for God’s sake, and you’re in the
leading philosophy department in the world. It didn’t get to be like that
because of vicious nonsense like your essay.”
During the past two centuries, many
of the world’s most influential thinkers studied or taught in Victoria’s
Philosophy Hall, a nondescript brick building that housed the university’s
philosophy department. It had been nicknamed “The Idea Factory of the West.”
But to Jethro, the pantheon of great thinkers seemed like a worn old club of fools,
pretenders, and religiously biased speculators. They were like so many of the
professors Jethro knew at Victoria: smart, articulate, witty, charismatic—but
with few solid ideas to stand on. And none had teeth to bite anything. Teeth ,
Jethro thought, silently grinding his own — what’s the point if we can’t
bite?
“Well, what do you have to say for
yourself?” the professor asked. "The words in your essay are
unacceptable."
Jethro watched him for a long time,
then slowly answered, “My words define a coming new species. Most humans will
reject them because they feel threatened and don't understand. Most humans are
cowardly idiots."
"Eh?"
"And those other papers I
turned in were extremely painful to write. I didn’t agree with the ideas. But
my job as a student was to follow the assignment and interpret those people. Given
your philosophical parameters, I did the job.”
Surprised, the professor squinted
his right eye and tightened his lips.
“The last assignment was on my
book, Discourse on Divine Instrumentalism— a national bestseller, just in
case you've forgotten. That was extremely painful?” the professor asked,
feeling the need to defend himself in front of his students.
Jethro leaned forward, rallied out
of his passivity, and said, “Are you being serious? That paper was the most
painful thing to write in four years of college. More so because so many others
liked and agreed with your ideas. The entire book was awful, full of moronic
drivel.”
Students moved carefully, edgily in
their seats. This was not how one spoke to the chair of Victoria’s philosophy
department, who the USA Daily Tribune named as one of the 100 most
influential people in the world. Especially in light of how even the slightest
positive recommendation from this professor would mean a guaranteed acceptance
to any graduate school in America—or the clinching of a high-profile,
high-paying job.
“An explanation is now due, Mr.
Knights,” the instructor said, trying to remain calm, underscoring the ferocity
growing in him.
“If you insist,” Jethro said, and
sighed. “Your book takes off where St. Augustine finishes. Back in the Dark
Ages, back when toilet paper was still centuries away—let alone a microchip
capable of processing a trillion bytes, or a plutonium-powered robot exploring
Jupiter's moons. It outlines and defends an imagined divinity—worse, a
commercialized Judeo-Christian manifestation—by some fairytale inversion
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