The Cave

There is something to be said about Room 9202 of the Arts and Social Sciences building, and the comment lends itself from that of the nature of the building overall, in particular the architecture. The layout is a strange labyrinth: unintuitive, meandering corridors conjoining spaces in which the impression of a room has been established, but without any discernible pattern or methodology. Room 9202 is a near-spherical area, placed in the direct center of the eight-floor complex. It has a fountain.

Going through her first couple days of real class the first year had noticed some of her teachers really stressed attendance. This is one of them. Looking down on her syllabus she sees that Dr. Adam Vance had devised a clever way in which to deduct points from those who did not show up for class. Not overtly or substantively harsh, just clever in the sense that ignorance of the spoken word of class is booby trapped to the rest of the semester. There is a certain warmed passion which radiates from Mr. Vance as he starts the attendance. He truly enjoys his job, the little nuances that come from being a steady hand in a world in a world sparse of his type, charged with flying the banner of the ancients, in all their wisdom.

Dr. Vance is so much different than Dr. Gaard, whose literature class Teresa had just attended prior. Dr. Renso Gaard is a name the first year had heard a couple of times independent of her class, all of the occasions in regards to the woman’s tremendously agile intelligence. She has written a number of books, some of which the College use for instruction. From the podium she lazed at earlier Teresa caught whiffs of resentment, alcohol, and other foreign particulates. Dr. Gaard spewed forth pure genius of a texture too raw for most to handle, like a computer barking out prime numbers. In the first class, someone asked about attendance: “Attendance? Does the amount of time you sit in those chairs relate to how much you learn? Are you an empty cup into which information is poured at a steady rate? No, there is no attendance. There is only the language of the course and what you choose to do with it. It’s all public; I wrote it, and if you apply logic to it you will pass this course. Feel free to get up and leave at any time if a novel idea fancies you. Feel free to restrain from anger if I choose this option as well.”

“All right. I see most of you are here now. For those of you who have arrived late please see me after class and I will add you to the attendance.”

Dr. Vance is medium build if not a little slender. He’s not entirely comfortable teaching, but he’s forgotten this over the years and let a personality develop that is. He walks slowly over to the chalkboard, waiting for the voices and noise to die down. The traditional chalkboard Teresa was used to from High School had been replaced with the white felt marker board. On it, Professor Vance had previously written ‘Philosophy 101’ with a black marker. He motions to the word now as he stands beside it, repeating the words aloud.

Philosophy is a subject Teresa had always had a bit of an interest in, but whenever she asked her mother questions along that line it seemed to strike a nerve with her. “It’s OK to make elaborate guesses, but there are universal laws, honey.” Teresa finds this weird cause she always figured logic was a universal law.
“Today we are going to begin our focus with Plato, the broad foundation upon which nearly all Western philosophy rests. The mathematician-turned philosopher Alfred North Whitehead once said that all Western Philosophy is but a footnote to Plato. His Platonic solids, which we will look at in Timaeus, are still taught in engineering and physics as the fundamental shapes of creation. Geometry, mathematics -- these are examples of abstractions, the higher echelons of ideas for Plato. Here we see the utter power of the idea. The idea, at the very top of his hierarchy, is simply called the Good.”

“The Good...” Teresa repeats it to herself.

“...It is perfect in function unto itself...”

The students hastily advance their notes, building cathedrals of theory with small pillars of ink.

“...Plato saw the sublime elegance of mathematics as one of the best reflections of that perfection. For instance, he believed ten was a perfect number. What do you think of ten? You have ten fingers for instance.”

The girl in the purple dress at the front of the class shrugs, putting up her hand. “What about six?” A coy smile flashes across her face as she brings her thumb to index, fingers spread.