By Lindsay Toler
By Chad Garrison
By Allison Babka
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By Jake Rossen
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By Kelsey McClure
By Lindsay Toler
The young professionals arrive first, juggling lattes and briefcases as they climb to the mezzanine of the Library Ltd. cafe. Then a grad student straggles up the stairs -- grad students always seem to straggle -- followed by two shy but friendly middle-aged women. A Zen practitioner with a sense of humor. An engineer. And Buddy Goodman.
The yuppies take him in slowly, first noting the ink-stained fingers (a retired printer?), ball cap and windbreaker (could be blue-collar, could be shabby-genteel). Eventually they will register the passionate intelligence, as Goodman pins a brash young attorney to the mat with a few well-chosen words. But first, Dave Hilditch -- who teaches philosophy at Webster University and instigated this freewheeling, deliberately amateur Philosophical Cafe at great risk to his scholarly image -- must explain the procedure.
He does so gently, his long craggy face disarming. Anyone can suggest a question or idea that bears reflection. The group votes on the evening's topic, then goes at it for 90 minutes. Hilditch guides the discussion, steering away from cant and Kant alike, offering deft summings-up.
He describes the Philosophical Cafe as a new movement, one that's wresting philosophy from the bony clutches of dessicated academics and returning it to laypersons. Goodman can't restrain a small, amused smile. "It's not new at all," he remarks later, in private. "We were doing this in Paris, when I studied existentialism at the Sorbonne."
The Sorbonne? Plots do thicken. "Actually, I haven't been interested in philosophy for the past 40 years," he continues smoothly. "I dropped it. Got more interested in mythical, instinctive things." Now retired -- after a checkered career running small companies, finding jobs for executives, fighting for civil rights, organizing academic education for call girls (so they'd be free to pursue another line of work) and hunting jobs for the homeless -- Goodman has both the time and the inclination to think. But what first drove him, a randy young American fresh from World War II heroics, to re-cross the ocean and study existentialism instead of easing into his family's successful dry-goods business in the old Washington Avenue garment district?
"Well, if we are going to do remembrance of things past," he begins wryly, "I first read Will Durant's History of Philosophy in high school. It was very exciting, opening my mind to Aristotle, Nietzsche, Rousseau ... but it didn't give me too much guidance in my life."
Then came the war, whose atrocities shook the stuffing out of his pacifist opinions. Goodman surprised himself by enlisting, and says he spent most of the World War II years climbing mountains in Italy, heavily bearded, carrying a bayonet and 20 hand grenades and using them often. "I fell in love with an Italian girl and deserted for a day," he adds, eyes glinting with nostalgia and irony in equal parts. "Later I wrote play about desertion called The Land Between." His eyes darken. "I saw a lot of 'lands between.'"
When Goodman came home, armed now with the GI Bill, he enrolled at Washington University and "took everything that wasn't practical -- sociology, art, drama and comparative literature." Then he headed for Paris, which was already flooded with young Americans re-examining their mores. "We were seeing how we had been fashioned in very neat compartmental ways, and we were trying to escape all that," he says, alluding to sexual as well as political awakenings. "What existentialism taught was that you must become engage -- personally involved in life." That means you look for what is authentic, he adds. Get outside of yourself. Rid language of its prejudices. "That is how you prove who you are," he finishes triumphantly. "If you don't do that, how do you know who you are?"
Conviction still roughens his voice, four decades later. "Those two years in Paris shaped my life," he admits. "It was the only time where philosophical thought was inexorably related to engagement, to making choices about how you lived. Talking about ideas, it was like sex! People from Senegal or Vietnam, bourgeois French girls with their hair cut very short, snipped in different directions in defiance of their mothers ... we'd all mix together in Montparnasse. Americans were lionized, invited to all the salons."
He says so matter-of-factly, too tuned to human nature's vagaries to buy the flattery. "The big question in Paris then," he continues, "was, 'Why didn't more French people oppose the Germans? Why did we cooperate?'" While that question burned, half the countries of the world were freeing themselves, and civil-rights movements were coming to life. "Liberty, equality and fraternity," he murmurs, marveling at how neatly his experience in Paris fit the triptych.
It's a rainy Monday evening, and the suggested topics for the cafe scatter like free-range chickens. "Is destiny fate?" a woman asks tentatively. "Can violence be used to contain violence?" offers another. "Whether spirits are real," murmurs a man. "What is security?" suggests Hilditch -- as an untenured professor, he's been musing about this.
The circle ends with Goodman. "Love and pride," he says. "The struggle between them." Seeing bemused looks, he explains, "If you don't have love, you sometimes have pride. But love saves you from pride." He glances warmly at his second wife, Jo Goodman, a quiet blonde whose insights, rarely voiced, carry enough simple force to turn a discussion.