People resent being shown that they don't approach the complexities of the problem— they don't know what exists beyond the surface ripples.
It's just as bad on a higher level, and I've given up any attempt to discuss these things with the professors at Beekman.
Burt introduced me to an economics professor at the faculty cafeteria, one well known for his work on the economic factors affecting interest rates.
I had long wanted to talk to an economist about some of the ideas I had come across in my reading.
The moral aspects of the military blockade as a weapon in times of peace had been bothering me.
I asked him what he thought of the suggestion by some senators that we begin using such tactics as "blacklisting" and reinforcement of the navicert controls that had been used in World Wars I and II, against some of the smaller nations which now oppose us.
He listened quietly, staring off into space, and I assumed he was collecting his thoughts for an answer, but a few minutes later he cleared his throat and shook his head.
That, he explained apologetically, was outside his area of specialization.
His interest was in interest rates, and he hadn't given military economics much thought.
He suggested I see Dr. Wessey, who once did a paper on War Trade Agreements during "World War II. He might be able to help me.
Before I could say anything else, he grabbed my hand and shook it.
He had been glad to meet me, but there were some notes he had to assemble for a lecture.
And then he was gone.
The same thing happened when I tried to discuss Chaucer with an American literature specialist, questioned an Orientalist about the Trobriand Islanders, and tried to focus on the problems of automation-caused unemployment with a social psychologist who specialized in public opinion polls on adolescent behavior.
They would always find excuses to slip away, afraid to reveal the narrowness of their knowledge.
How different they seem to be now.
And how foolish I was ever to have thought that professors were intellectual giants.
They're people—and afraid the rest of the world will find out.
And Alice is a person too—a woman, not a goddess—and I'm taking her to the concert tomorrow night.
May 17
Almost morning and I can't fall asleep. I've got to understand what happened to me last night at the concert.
The evening started out well enough.
The Mall at Central Park had filled up early, and Alice and I had to pick our way among the couples stretched out on the grass.
Finally, far back from the path, we found an unused tree where—out of the range of lamplight—the only evidence of other couples was the protesting female laughter and the glow of lit cigarettes.
"This will be fine," she said.
"No reason to be right on top of the orchestra."
"What's that they're playing now?" I asked.
"Debussy's La Mer.
Do you like it?"
I settled down beside her.
"I don't know much about this kind of music. I have to think about it."
"Don't think about it," she whispered. "Feel it. Let it sweep over you like the sea without trying to understand."
She lay back on the grass and turned her face in the direction of the music.
I had no way of knowing what she expected of me.
This was far from the clear lines of problem-solving and the systematic acquisition of knowledge.
I kept telling myself that the sweating palms, the tightness in my chest, the desire to put my arms around her were merely biochemical reactions.
I even traced the pattern of stimulus-and-reaction that caused my nervousness and excitement.
Yet everything was fuzzy and uncertain.
Should I put my arm around her or not?
Was she waiting for me to do it?
Would she get angry?
I could tell I was still behaving like an adolescent and it angered me.
"Here," I choked, "why don't you make yourself more comfortable?
Rest on my shoulder."
She let me put my arm around her, but she didn't look at me.
She seemed to be too absorbed in the music to realize what I was doing.
Did she want me to hold her that way, or was she merely tolerating it?
As I slipped my arm down to her waist, I felt her tremble, but still she kept staring in the direction of the orchestra.
She was pretending to be concentrating on the music so that she wouldn't have to respond to me. She didn't want to know what was happening.
As long as she looked away and listened, she could pretend that my closeness, my arms around her, were without her knowledge or consent. She wanted me to make love to her body while she kept her mind on higher things.