Jack Sommers

Williamsburg, Virginia

30 June 2002

Dear Kevin,

            You may have heard this one: an Old Irish proverb about expectations.  “You’ve got the hiccups from the bread and butter you never ate.”  So much for expectations; they only give you gas.  So if you see me get that bloated feeling, you’ll know why.

            Actually, a few expectations come to mind (and belly).  Of course, given the proverb, I shouldn’t expect too much.  Actually, as you have come to know me, you’ll appreciate that I’m one with the attitude that as a man gets wiser, he expects less, and probably get more than he expects.  Something about limitations…

            So, here is my gaseous list of expectations…

·       Above all, I want to sit down and examine great things greatly.

·       I want to arrive at a finer means of knowing.  Some years ago, I came up with a notion I called intellectual tolerance.  Thought, to move from one frog pond to another, requires an admixture of conviction, uncertainty, and open-mindedness.  I hope to detect this in the participants.  As Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote, “A mind that is stretched to a new idea never returns to its original dimension.”

·       I would like to mention my think-tank idea early on in our associations to see if one or two would want to know more.  We could meet at a free time in our schedule, over English gin, of course.  I’m less interested in ascent to its core philosophy, and more after a critical response.  What might follow, then, is a peer day at a future residency session. 

·       Especially if it rains, then I can quote Robert Benchley, or was it Bette Davis: “Let’s get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini”.

·       I want to go up to Cambridge.  Just gotta stand on Wittgenstein’s grave so he can give me the silent treatment!  Maybe someone can get a car for the weekend to get there. 

·       I heard a good one the other day.  Scholars, if they get enough rehabilitation, might get a real job.  Is Oxford good for that?

·       And, of course, some long, solitary walks around town.  Perhaps I’ll bump into George Santayana.

See you (and Leslie) at the old wooden doors of Harris Manchester. 

Jack