Farewell Professor MacIntyre

I spent half of my time as a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame (the other half at Cambridge University), where there are many fine people. None finer than Alisdair MacIntyre. He is one of two professors who continue to influence me today.

Many many people know far more than I of MacIntyre’s philosophical career, so it would be silly of me to give a philosophical remembrance. Here, instead, are some personal memories.

In 1990, I took the first of what turned out to be many classes with MacIntyre—as many as I could manage, and when he wasn’t teaching we read Greek together. A month or so in to that first class, MacIntyre showed up to a chamber performance in which I was playing French horn. (I was still an active player at that time.) I’m sure he had no idea that I would be there, and I certainly had no notion that he was there. The next day, he called on me to stay after class (“great, one month into my new life as a graduate student and I’m already in trouble…”), and as we walked to his office, he let me know that he was at the performance, and asked very pointedly why I was not pursuing a career as a horn player.

I’m not sure why I told him the truth, but I’m confident that doing so touched off an interesting relationship—not a friendship, really, but also not exactly ‘professor and student’. The truth was that I had had a lesson with Dale Clevenger, arguably the best horn player in the world at that time. During that lesson, I heard him do things on the horn that I knew I would never be able to do. I could not live with the idea of spending my entire life unable to play the instrument that I loved in the manner that I now knew is possible (or at least was until Clevenger died). I had to turn my attention to something that I cared less about, which (somewhat randomly) turned out to be philosophy.

Alert to aspiring or current graduate students: Strongly consider not telling your professors that you are pursuing philosophy because you don’t care all that much about it.

And yet, instead of the predictable reaction (disdain? disappointment? disinterest?) MacIntyre immediately and clearly and without pretense understood what I was saying. He didn’t berate me, question why I was there, or anything of the sort. Instead, we had a wonderful conversation about goals, ambitions, and happiness. Maybe he suspected that such a reaction would inspire me in his class. Maybe it was just his natural reaction. Maybe both.

There are many other stories to tell, such as the time that he was having dinner in my apartment and regaled everybody present with a fascinating and hilarious story about his encounters with Yoko Ono in London, or the time he described to me—and I think he might have been serious—his idea of how to win the propaganda war with Saddam Hussein. (Create a gigantic statue of Mickey Mouse urinating (not quite his term) on the dictator.) I’ll offer just two more encounters that tell of the man well.

I wrote a lot of weird essays as a graduate student. I once wrote an essay on Aquinas’ theory of truth entirely in Latin. For another class, I turned in a tape-recorded dialogue between Parmenides and Protagoras. In another, I graded and commented on my own paper in advance and turned in the graded paper. My professors put up with it. They were nice, but it was clear from their reactions that I was the weird student whom they tolerated. One of them told me plainly (after giving me the only ‘B’ I’ve ever received) that my paper was ‘fun’, but if I kept up that sort of thing, I’d never get a job. He said he gave me a ‘B’ (which, for readers who don’t know, is effectively a failing grade in graduate school) to try to motivate me to be more professional.

But with MacIntyre things were different. In his class on Aristotle’s ethics I turned in, as my final paper, a letter from Alexander the Great to Aristotle, explaining why he, Alexander, had decided to become a hermit. (For those who don’t know the history, Alexander’s actual career-path was somewhat different from hermitage!) It led to a very long conversation in MacIntyre’s office about the (notoriously problematic) last book of Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics. Or, at least, that is ostensibly what the conversation was about; but really it was about life, happiness, flourishing even when the world feels shitty, and much more. Such conversations were natural for MacIntyre—with him, you couldn’t help but care about philosophy!

After some time away from Notre Dame, I returned for a short while. In the meantime, I had experienced the delight of two stays at Fulbourn hospital, and I was playing a shaky game of trying to write a dissertation while avoiding any further visits to any psychiatric institution. I went to see MacIntyre, not intending to tell him what had happened, but somehow, after a lengthy conversation, it came out. For quite a long time, he was the only person in North America who knew. And, predictably, his reaction was not the predictable reaction. (“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. I hope you’re feeling better.”) Instead, we talked about how philosophical thinking and mad thinking are not all that far apart, really. More important, his reaction was to treat me not as an object of pity or concern, but as an equal, as a person.

Professor MacIntyre, I am probably a professional philosopher today because of you. (Read ‘probably’ as modifying both ‘am’ and ‘because’!) As you know well, and as we discussed, the jury is out on whether I should thank you or forgive you. Either way, I treasure the time we spent together. I was a very tiny part of your life, but you are a huge part of mine. Say ‘hi’ to Yoko Ono.