"Where are we going?" I asked, as I popped open the door to Professor Radisson's car. The sleek vehicle had just driven up to the public park that I thought was supposed to be the site of our session. Apparently it was just our meeting place before we went somewhere else.
"I've got something to show you," Radisson said casually as I buckled myself in and he peeled away from the curb, heedless of the small children bouncing a ball on the sidewalk nearby. "You're gonna love it." He flashed me a smirk. "Trust me."
Not much chance of that happening, but it looked like I was along for the ride. For now, at least.
"So, what are we talking about today?" I asked as Radisson zoomed down residential streets.
"I thought we'd talk about Diogenes," he replied. "You know, since I'm such a cynic."
"And I'm guessing Diogenes was a huge cynic too."
"The original cynic." He considered that for a moment. "Well, actually that would be Antisthenes, but Diogenes was the first to take the philosophy to its logical conclusion."
I rolled my eyes. "Great."
"You might actually like it more than you think," Radisson told me as he took a sharp left. "The original use of the word cynic, or cynicism, is nothing like the modern term. Ancient Greek cynics believed that the only way to live a happy life was to be totally virtuous, which to the Greeks meant to live in accordance with nature."
"So, what, they lived off the land?"
"Some of them," Radisson nodded. "They preached self-sufficiency. Not to mention asceticism - they didn't own anything that didn't have value in nature. No money, no property, just the basics they needed to survive. Of course, Diogenes himself practised that lifestyle by living on the streets and begging for food."
Did Radisson admire Diogenes? Radisson, who enjoyed expensive wine and sumptuous meals and fast cars? I would never have thought he'd agree with that kind of belief system - which would have put us on common ground, for once. "That doesn't seem like a great philosophy," I observed, wondering where this conversation could be going. "I mean, aside from the fact that it sounds like Diogenes was just lazy, how many people can do something like that before nothing works anymore?"
Radisson chuckled.
"What?"
"Sorry. It's just weird to hear you independently come up with a utilitarian argument. Anyways, Diogenes' lifestyle may have been extreme," he shrugged, "But he did it to call attention to the parts of society he considered unnatural. Which would have been all of it."
"All of it?" I repeated. "What, was he an anarchist or something?"
"First of all, anarchism isn't what you think it is," Radisson raised a finger to count off his arguments. "But that's a long tangent. Second of all, Diogenes thought, quite correctly, that, as animals, things like law and manners don't come naturally to us, no matter how much we may take them for granted."
"We aren't animals," I protested.
"I assure you, I am," Radisson replied with a wolfish grin, his voice lowering into an almost-growl.
"Well I'm not."
"Then where would you classify yourself in the tree of life?" he asked. "Plantae? Fungi? Perhaps you think of yourself as a particularly talkative, ambulatory species of bacteria?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Basic biology. Not that it matters," Radisson shrugged, guiding the car into an underground garage below an apartment complex. "The point is, Diogenes lived like an animal in order to illustrate what he saw as the true state of mankind."
Now was my chance. I saw a crack I could probe into. "And if you think of yourself as an animal," I argued, "Isn't it hypocritical not to do the same?"
Professor Radisson slid into the parking space and shut down the purring engine, taking the key from the ignition. "What can I say?" he asked. "I like my creature comforts." He started to get out of the car.
"Wait, where are we?" I asked, hurriedly getting out and chasing after him between the rows of parked cars, most quite a bit older, cheaper, or beat-up than Radisson's.
Radisson pulled open a glass door that led to two elevators, holding it open for me. "We're going to an apartment I use for work," he explained.
"An apartment?" I repeated, my mind searching for an explanation. "But… Does your wife know about this?"
Following behind me and then hitting the call button for the elevator, Professor Radisson shot me an amused look. "Of course," he said. "In fact, she insisted. She thought it would be safer if I didn't have to drive all the way home when I have to spend a late night marking."
"Oh."
"That, and we've found it's better for our marriage if I don't…" he searched for the appropriate words for a few seconds, "Take work home with me."
"Alright." That seemed like a good enough explanation. And I was already riding in the elevator, up to the thirteenth floor. And, even if I made a hasty excuse and left, I didn't think I could antagonize Professor Radisson more than I already had in the past few weeks. If things got weird, I could always leave, I reassured myself, talking myself into following Radisson down the hall. "What -" I started, and then cleared my throat, steeling myself to strengthen my voice. "What did you want to show me?" I finally asked as Radisson turned the key, unlocking the apartment.
He merely grinned, and pushed the door open. It swung inward to reveal a small room filled with cheap furniture that had probably been obtained by the side of the road, if the stuffing erupting from part of the sofa was any indication. In the middle of it all, sitting on a scuffed, bland Ikea coffee table, was a massive, ancient looking tome.
"Is that what I think it is?" I asked, stepping forward almost in a daze.
"Indeed it is," Radisson nodded.
"But, how?" I sputtered. "Why?"
"Because I can," Radisson shrugged. "My privileges as a tenured Professor allow me to check it out of the university library. And I thought you'd get a kick out of it."
The school's copy of the Gutenberg Bible. A copy of the holy word that had been read for centuries, to thousands, maybe millions of people - and the perfect first use of the printing press. "This is amazing," I breathed.
"Of course, this isn't one of the complete ones," Radisson shrugged again, oblivious to the gravity of the artifact, not to mention my complete and utter awe at it. "There aren't too many of those around. But it's still a fairly significant historical relic."
"How can you talk about it like that?" I demanded. "Even if you don't believe it, this book changed the world."
"The ideas in it might have," he admitted. "But in the end, a book is only ink and paper. That's all that one is," he pointed, "Plus a few centuries of accumulated dust."
"It's not just ink and paper," I shot back, my voice rising. "Nothing is ever just ink and paper. You think we're animals? We're not, and this proves it. Animals can't pass knowledge down, they can't speak to each other from centuries in the past. Ink and paper aren't just ink and paper, they're a way to preserve your thoughts. Ink and paper are powerful."
"I'm glad you said that," Radisson cocked his head, "Because I've got something else to show you. More ink and paper."
He wandered away, into the unlit hallway leading to the rest of the apartment. I heard a door creak as I followed him, but no lights came on.
"Professor Radisson?" I called as I felt my way along the walls. "Where are you?"
"Straight ahead," came the response. "Just keep going."
The light from the living room was undetectable behind me now, and I was in complete darkness. My fingers brushed against the projection of a door frame, and I stumbled through. There was a flash of light as an incandescent bulb came on, the click of a switch behind me. I blinked, nearly blind, and then gasped.
