We’d be wiped out soon, that’s what we’ve always believed, postgraduates. We’d be put out of our misery soon. Some apocalypse or another would do for us.
It couldn’t be allowed to go on, our being in the academy, could it? A kind of equilibrium would find itself again, the error would be corrected. The typo erased.
We’d disappear, postgraduates. We’d vanish, just like that. Just disappear. And things would be righted. Would default back to normal. Order would be restored.
Our time would have passed, postgraduates. The whole anomaly of our being in the academy. It’d be history – and forgotten very quickly. Just – buried, as it should be. No one should remember!
A phase, nothing more. An experiment gone wrong. We held the line. We kept our posts. We did our duty, when philosophy needed us – even us.
Sure, we’d have made mistakes. Sure, we were well-intentioned. With laudable aims. We were delighted to have even been asked. To have felt the call. To have felt that we – even we – could serve philosophy.
But the whole sorry episode should be forgotten. Should be left to oblivion. The whole of our being in philosophy. Of our serving in Livia’s philosophy department.
Work in Progress 