Still, I would like to say a few words about our regalia. As President Tobinlikes to remind those who attend Hamilton ceremonies, these odd outfits we arewearing express a connection with the medieval university. Do we not lookSplendid? Do we not appear August? Of course we do, for you are here today tohonor an imposing array of women and men who occupy Chairs from which they,well, from which they profess.
I must digress a bit to tell you of a problem I have been troubled with athome ever since that terrible car crash in Paris. Because I have showninsufficient sympathy for Princess Diana, my wife has taken to accusing me ofbeing a Windsor. Domestic tensions did not relax this morning when I took myacademic gear out of moth balls and my wife realized that my robe -- fromColumbia, which was King's College before the American Revolution -- has theselittle crowns on the lapels. Yes, Faculty are Royals--splendid in theirregalia.
What does lie under the robes? I have known colleagues to show up for humidcommencements wearing shorts and tee shirts under their gowns; I have seensandals, space shoes, sneakers, and even what I am told are called jellies.Gowns may mask fashions hopelessly out of date; neckties may bear traces oflunches past; in some cases -- mine, for example -- these robes of generous cut(one size fits all) disguise waistlines gone to wrack and ruin.
Consider, moreover, the Professorial Hat, surely a relic not only of medievaltimes but of the dark ages. It is impossible to hold for long a seriousconversation face-to-face with a person wearing a cap with one of thesetassels. And two tassels waggling at each other -- that suggests notintelligent discourse but the mating dances of birds. In short, Faculty aresimultaneously regal figures and silly twits (or Windsors, for those of you whoside with my wife). So be it. It seems only fair that people who set up toprofess should be set up to look foolish from time to time. Let me tell yousomething of the foolishness of this august fellowship. And let me tell youwhy this faculty is not merely foolish. Let me sing in praise of folly.
Shortly after I began teaching at Hamilton in 1957, I found myself engaged inconversation with a senior colleague, engaged much as you might find your shirttail caught in a set of slowly and inexorably moving gears. The effect was sostupefying that I had better not name my colleague, long since retired, and,alas, deceased. My sense that Professor X was a bore was widely shared amongthe Faculty, his acquaintanceship off the campus, and, I suspect, his wife. Nosurprise here. The academic bore is a stock figure of farce and comedy.
The shock was discovering that Professor X was a superb teacher. Thestudents he introduced to his discipline were devoted, zealous, rapt. Theytold me of new worlds he had opened for them, of knowledge revealed, and ofintellectual adventure. At about the same time, I should add, I discovered thecorollary: people I found excellent company might be failures in theclassroom.
How to account for the paradox? I think the explanation lies here: Goodteachers foolishly believe that their area, their field, their patch (theirdark corner maybe, but never their rut) is the most interesting and importantthing in the world. They burn to explain, elucidate, define, what they knowand what they are searching for. Despite a necessary skepticism, they are truebelievers in an age of easy cynicism, a time of the grossest materialism andopportunism. Thus, on social occasions they may be bores. But put them in aclassroom or a laboratory, or send them out on a field trip, and they awaken,inspire, yes, ignite the creative imagination of students. Not allstudents, of course; prudently, Hamilton offers no money-back guarantees ontuition.
David Paris, our Acting Dean, asked me last spring whether teaching got anyeasier as one grew -- he stammered here, embarrassed to say the word --"older." No, as I learned some time ago, it does not get easier, and thereason is to be found in another rule, this time one that took me years todiscover. The autumn I turned fifty, a good time for self-reflection, Irealized that I had started a new school year almost as far back as I couldremember, virtually ever since the first grade. For almost a half century,every fall, I had found myself, in effect, picking out my new pencil case andlunch box, looking forward with anxiety, excitement, and hope to a new schoolyear. Rule number two: good faculty are ineducable.
September after September, year in, year out, they start the academic yearwith impossible hopes and expectations. After a few rounds of teaching, itwould seem that any sensible man or woman would get out of the ring. The facesin the classrooms and labs and recital halls change, the board scores rise andfall and rise again, but let's face it, over the generations, eighteen- andnineteen- and twenty-year-olds share a kind of generic ignorance. Yet good
