Aristotle was right.

Unsteady, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of his Stanford professor. It was pushing two am. A few rings and then a female voice.

“Is Tom in?” he asked politely, and yes, I think even a touch blithely. 

“No. . . . He’s in Europe, and isn’t it a little late to be calling?” The professor’s wife spoke kindly but didn’t bother to hide the scolding tone that years of experience with people of this sort had taught her.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he replied, “and I’m terribly sorry now.” And he was. 

But being the good wife and courteous woman that she was and is, she offered, “Would you like me to give him a message?”

“Yes.” In the time it took to speak that one word, the pulse came back into his voice. “Can you tell him: Aristotle was right.” He spoke desperately but firmly. 

The professor was already and would be more worried about him when the wife relayed the student’s message. The professor would not understand, but he would know. 

With this knowledge, our student (who is quite brilliant and whose simple declaration contained a world within) replaced the phone, slid down spine to the wall, until his head pressed upon his knees, and wept.