The Only Philosophy That Changed My Life
It wasn’t the Stoics
Have you ever been blessed with an eccentric philosophy professor? You should consider picking one up on your next round of errands (free-range, the factory-farmed professors aren’t worth listening to).
I was blessed with a delightfully crackpot philosophy professor when I took literary criticism in my junior year of the teaching program.
A chain-smoking, rail-thin, fast-food-gobbling, trench-coat-wearing nutcase who looked like he might fall apart any second.
Listening to him would take you on journeys throughout history, time, and space, to the far reaches of the human mind.
His classes were old-fashioned. None of this newfangled “call and response” or “discussion.” Though it stressed out my type-A classmates, I loved it. (To be fair, I still have no idea what literary criticism is. I’m probably better for it).
One sunny day in April, he gave a lecture that became my favorite philosophical lesson. I hold this above all others.
