Abstract
IN THE SPRING of 1960, my last semester as a student, I took my first course in philosophy. I did so only because I had learned that my primary teaching responsibility the next fall would be teaching a survey course in philosophy. I worked reasonably hard trying to learn some philosophy that spring, and I worked very hard during the entire summer. By the beginning of the fall semester, I was prepared, in a sense, for the responsibility. At least, I knew more than the students. I had working definitions of metaphysics, ethics, esthetics, and epistemology. I had fragments of Plato, Aristotle, Kant, Locke, Berkeley, Hume and various others in my head, and coherent summaries in my notebooks. I had my texts so filled with marginal and interlinear notes that they were more confusing than useful to me.
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