“Well, I didn't actually
write
it for you, Jojo ⦔
“Hah. In fact, that's what you actually did do.” He smiled, but it was a smile of fellow feeling. “Don't worry, you didn't even help me, okay? I wrote it all myself, I got those words out of some book, all right?”
Adam was biting his lower lip. “If worse comes to worstâmaybe I helped you smooth out some rough edges. What about that?”
“Awww, don't get worked up. If worse comes to worse, Coach'll take
care of it.” Everything had gotten turned around. Now he felt like he had to be Adam's therapist or camp counselor.
“You think he can?”
Or mommy. The poor little omega male was
looking
at him in the most frightened way.
“Well, sure he can. But I shouldn't have even mentioned it. It's not gonna come to that. I'm gonna hang tough. The guy can't prove a goddamned thing. At least it wasn't downloaded from the Internet. They can check that shit with computers now. Treyshawn got in trouble last year ⦠or sort of ⦔ He laughed. “Treyshawn can't
get
in trouble around here. If it comes to
that
, the fucking president goes first, not Treyshawn the Tower Fucking Diggs.” Big grin.
Adam tried to smile, too, but he was too shaken up. “Okay. Okay.” He looked away with his eyebrows contorted, obviously thinking, thinking, thinking. Then he turned back with an urgent expression. “Look. Here's what we have to do in the meantime. In fact, why don't we do it right now. We go over the paper together, word by word. The thing to do is, you get to know every word, every idea, every bit of history in the damned thing. Then, if anybody asks you anythingâyou were just rattled when Quat first brought it up. I say let's get started.”
Adam's expression was so nerve-wracked, Jojo couldn't help saying, “I can't do that now.”
“Why not?”
“I got to make a booty call.”
“Jojo!”
“I'm just kidding, I'm just kidding.” His eyes wandered. He was stricken with remorse. “There's no reason something like this shoulda ever happened. Shit ⦠I can do better than this. I'm not a fucking moron ⦔
L
ess than fifteen minutes left, and Charlotte was still leaning forward in her seat high up in the amphitheater, spellbound. The slender and surprisingly debonair figure down there on the stage, Mr. Starling, who must have been close to fifty, walked from one side to the other, not lecturing, but using the Socratic approach, asking his students questions and commenting on their answers, as if he were talking to twelve or thirteen souls gathered around a seminar table rather than the 110 who now sat before him in steep tiers, filling a small but grandiose amphitheater with a dome and a ceiling mural by Annigoni of Daedalus and the flight of Icarus from the labyrinth of Minos.
“All right,” Mr. Starling was saying, “so Darwin describes evolution in terms of a âtree of life,' starting with a single point from which rise limbs, branches”âwith his arms he pantomimed a tree rising and wideningâ“offshoots of infinite variety, but what is that
point
where it all starts? What does Darwin say this tree has ascended
from
? Where does he say evolution begins?”
He surveyed his audience, and a dozen hands shot up. “Yes,” he said, pointing to a plump blond girl in the topmost row, not all that far from one of the molten wings of Icarus.
“He said it began with a single cell, a single-cell organism,” said the girl.
“Somebody asked him where the single cell was located, and he said, âOh, I don't know, probably in a warm pond somewhere.'”
An undercurrent of laughter ran through the amphitheater. Everybody looked to Mr. Starling to see how he would take it.
He smiled in a shrewd sort of way, paused, then said, “You happen to be exactly right. In fact, he suggested there might have been a whole
school
of single-cell organisms in that warm pond. But that leaves us with the question of where the single-cell organisms came from and, as far as that goes, the warm pondâbut let's forget about the pond for the time being. Where did Darwin say the single cell or cells came from?”
He crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side, a challenging pose he often struck. “Okay, my little geniuses,” the pose said, “what are you going to do with
that
one?”
One of the amphitheater's downlighters happened to hit him dramatically, theatrically ⦠just so ⦠and he held the pose during the silence that ensued. In Charlotte's estimation, the vision was ⦠sublime. Victor Ransome Starling's thick brown hair, which he combed straight back, was definitely still brown despite a rising tide of gray. The current fashion among male professors at Dupont was scrupulously improper: cheap-looking shirts, open at the throat, needless to say, and cotton pants with no creasesâjeans, khakis, corduroysâto distinguish themselves from the mob, which is to say, the middle class; but Victor Ransome Starling always bucked the tide with the sort of outfit he was wearing right now, a brown-and-white houndstooth suit that looked great on his slender frame, a light blue shirt, a black knit tie, and a pair of ginger-brown suede shoes. To Charlotte he was elegance itself amid a motley crew.
Yes, Mr. Starling was sublime, to look at and to listen to, and he had posed a question. Swept away, Charlotte raised her hand and was immediately frightened by her own audacityâa freshman in an advanced class taught by a Nobel Prize winner in a daunting amphitheater overflowing with upperclassmen.
The vision below looked up at her, gestured, and said, “Yes?”
Charlotte's heart began racing, and she became acutely conscious of the sound of her own voice. “Darwin saidâhe said he didn't know where the original cells came from, and he wasn't going to guess?” Even as the words left her lips, she was aware that she was reverting, in her nervousness, to the way she spoke before she arrived at Dupont. She had broken
guess
into two
syllables and uttered it on a rising note, as if she were asking a question rather than making a statement. But she plowed on. “He said the origin of life itself was a hopeless
in
quiry?
” Inquiry
rose, too! And she had come down on the
in
like a farm boy driving in a stake with an ax head. “And it would be way, way in the future before somebody figured that out, if they ever did?”âwhich not only rose but also came out
dee-ud.
“And I think he saidâin
The Origin of Species?â
I think he said that in the beginning it was the Creator? âwith a capital C? It was the Creator, and he breathed life âinto a few or into one'
â
a
few
single-cell organisms or
one
single-cell organism, I guess.”
Geh-essâ
in spite of herself.
“Right,” said Mr. Starling, looking up at her from the stage. Then he turned away to address the class as a whole. “Now you'll noticeâ” He stopped abruptly and looked up again in Charlotte's direction: “Very good. Thank you.” Then he turned away again and continued. “You'll notice that Darwin, who probably did more than any other single person to extinguish religious faith among educated people, doesn't present himself as an atheist. He bows to âthe Creator.' He always professed to be a religious person. There's one school of thought that says he was only throwing a sop to the conventional beliefs of his day, since he knew
The Origin of Species
might be attacked as blasphemous. But I suspect it was something else. He probably couldn't
conceive
of being an atheist. In his day, not even the most daring, most rationalistic and materialistic philosophers, not even David Hume, professed to be atheists. It's not until the end of the nineteenth century that we come upon the first atheist of any prominence: Nietzsche. I suspect Darwin figured that since nobody had the foggiest idea as to
what
created life in the first place, and might never know, why not just say it was created by the Creator and let it go at that?”
He looked up in Charlotte's direction again and gestured. “You've made a very fine and very important distinction.” Then his eyes panned over the entire class. “The origin of the species, which is to say, evolution, and the origin of life itself, of the impulse to live, are two different things.”
The student on Charlotte's right, a cheery brunette with pale but striking features whom she knew only as a junior named Jill, whispered, “Hey! Charlotte!” and opened her eyes wide and pulled a face of mock astonishment. Then she mouthed the words “Not bad!” and smiled.
A flood of joy, so intense it seemed tangible in her nerve endings, ran through Charlotte's entire body. She was giddy. She barely took in anything anybody said in the last few minutes of the class.
One thing she did remember was something Mr. Starling said about “the conscious little rock”:
“If anyone should ask me why we're spending so much time on Darwin,” he was saying at one point, “I would consider that a perfectly logical question. Darwin was not a neuroscientist. His knowledge of the human brain, if any, was primitive. He knew nothing about genes, even though they were discovered by a contemporary of his, an Austrian monk named Gregor Johann Mendelâwhose work strengthens the case for evolution tremendously. But Darwin did something more fundamental. He obliterated the cardinal distinction between man and the beasts of the fields and the wilds. It had always been a truism that man is a rational being and animals live by âinstinct.' But what is instinct? It's what we now know to be the genetic code an animal is born with. In the second half of the last century, neuroscientists began to pursue the question, âIf man is an animal, to what extent does
his
genetic code, unbeknownst to him, control his life?' Enormously, according to Edward O. Wilson, a man some speak of as Darwin the Second. We will get to Wilson's work soon. But there is a big difference between âenormously' and âentirely.' âEnormously' leaves some wiggle room for your free will to steer your genetically coded âinstincts' in any direction you wantâif ⦠there is such a thing as âyou.' I say âif,' because the new generation of neuroscientistsâand I enjoy staying in communication with themâbelieve Wilson is a very cautious man. They laugh at the notion of free will. They yawn at your beliefâmy beliefâthat each of us has a capital-letter I, as in âI believe,' a âself,' inside our head that makes âyou,' makes âme,' distinct from every other member of the species Homo sapiens, no matter how many ways we might be like them. The new generation are absolutists. TheyâI'll just tell you what one very interesting young neuroscientist e-mailed me last week. She said, âLet's say you pick up a rock and you throw it. And in midflight you give that rock consciousness and a rational mind. That little rock will think it has free will and will give you a highly rational account of why it has decided to take the route it's taking.' So later on we will get to âthe conscious little rock,' and you will be able to decide for yourself: âAm I really ⦠merely ⦠a conscious little rock?' The answer, incidentally, has implications of incalculable importance for the Homo sapiens' conception of itself and for the history of the twenty-first century. We may have to change the name of our species to Homo Lapis Deiciecta ConsciaâMan, the Conscious Thrown Stoneâor, to make it simpler, as my correspondent did, âMan, the Conscious Little Rock.'”
Once it ended, five or six students went up onstage and gathered about Mr. Starling. By the time Charlotte had made her way down from the upper rows of the amphitheater, he was just descending from the stage, and they came within two or three feet of each other. He excused himself from a tall young man who was hovering over him and turned toward her.
“Hello,” he said. “It was youâI'm afraid I have a hard time distinguishing faces in the upper rowsâyou're the young ⦠uh ⦠the one who mentioned the Creator?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you made a very nice summary of a very subtle point. Can I assume you actually read
The Origin of Species?”
“Yes, sir.”
Professor Starling smiled. “I assign it every year, but I'm not sure how many actually go to the trouble, although it's well worth it. What's your background in biology?”
“I went as far as molecular biology. My high school didn't have that, so they sent me over to Appalachian State twice a week.”
“Appalachian State University? You're from North Carolina?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What year are you?”
“I'm a freshman.”
He nodded several times, as if pondering that. “You took the A.P.”
“Yes, sir.”
He did some more nodding. “I try to get to know every student before Christmas, but we've got a very large class this year. I'm afraid I don't know your name.”
“Charlotte Simmons.”
Still more nodding. “Well, Ms. Simmons, keep going to the primary sources if you can, even when we get to neurobiology and some of the prose gets a littleâa little steep.”
With that, he gave her a businesslike smile and turned back to the students who had been clustering about him.
Charlotte left the building and began walking aimlessly across the Great Yard. He had singled her out! The midmorning sun cast immense shadows of the buildings on this side upon the Yard's lawn, which looked more lush and a richer green in shadow than in light. Beyond the shadows, the sun had transformed the Gothic buildings on the other side into gleaming monoliths.
The bells of the Ridenour Carillon were tolling “The Processional,” and not knowing the lyrics Kipling had written for it, Charlotte found it stirring. The verdant foreground, the brilliant backdrop, the stirring musicâall somehow arranged expressly for her! Sailing! Sailing! Gloriously drunk on cosmological theories and approbation.
On this sparkling, sunny morning, with its perfect, cloudless blue sky, amid the century-old majesty of the Dupont campus, it came to her in a rush ⦠Yes! She had found the life of the mind and was â¦
living it!
She gazed about at all the other students who were walking across the Great Yard. She was among the elite of the youth of America! Back home in Sparta, she was known as the Girl Who Went to Dupont. Here at Dupont she would be known, in the fullness of time, as ⦠she didn't know precisely what, but a radiant dawn had arisen ⦠Before her, behind her, walking this way and that way across the Great Yard, enjoying the sun, enjoying the shade and the majesty of the ancient trees, chattering away into their cell phones, which their daddies could pay for as easily as drawing their next breath, suffused with the conspicuous lapidary consumption of all this royal Middle English Gothic architecture and the knowledge that they were among that elite minifraction of the youth of Americaâof the youth of the world!âwho went to Dupontâall about her moved her 6,200 fellow students, or a great many of them, in midflight, blithely ignorant of the fact that they were merely conscious little rocks, every one of them, whereas â¦
I am Charlotte Simmons.
The thought magnified the light of the sun itself. She was now beyond the Great Yard, but here, too, the lavish lawns, the way the sun lit up the tops of the leaves of the great trees and at the same time turned the undersides into vast filigrees of shadowâto Charlotte it became a magical tableau of green and gold. Just ahead, Briggs College ⦠and even Briggs, generally regarded as a bit of an eyesore, had come alive as a pattern of brilliant stone surfaces incised by the shadows of arches and deep-set windows. Four or five guys and one girl were out on the steps of the main entrance. One of the guys, a string bean with a huge mass of dark curls, was on his feet. The others were sitting on the steps near him. Students hanging out on the front steps was a familiar sight at all the colleges, but Charlotte did a second take. If she wasn't mistaken, one of them was the guy she had run into the other night at the gym: Adam.