Focus, she thinks.Good is what you’re pretending to be. Just write it down.
Good is the root of human nature. Goodness, like a vine, grows and twists into itself, tangling in the dirt that is our skin, further connecting us all as one shared blood. Good is the mother of all that we know. It flows from the wellspring of the soul and the belly of the deepest love. It is the sun and the night, the moon and the morning. It is everything we are born knowing. It is an innate hunger, a primal instinct, a dream and a wish. It is warmth. Goodness is the birthright of humankind, the marker of civility. When we are good, our lives take on a deeper meaning, a richness that resonates within our bodies like the ring of a bell.
At its heart, and in our hearts, goodness is something that we feel, and know, we are.
That’s… good. It’s lyrical and novel and intricate. Yes, that’s really good. Pleased with herself, Claudia lays down her quill and turns the paper over, then slides it to the corner of the desk that is out of Cassius’s reach.
“You’re making a mess,” Cassius says.
“What? Oh, shit.” Her quill is spilling out the rest of its ink onto the table. When she picks it up, black stains her hands. She wipes it on her robe over and over again until she gets as much off as possible. It blends right in; thank the gods for the black clothing.
“And don’t use crass language in class. You’re a rhetoric student now, Jolicoeur. Speak like one.”
“Class hasn’t started yet,” she bites back. “Bastard” slides under her breath. If he heard her, he doesn’t react to it.
Finally, Professor Olivier walks in. She’s older—not quite as old as Mrs. Schottstaedt from the Wanderer’s Wonders, but her pinned-up hair is turning gray at the roots, and the lenses in her glasses are thick as bone. Her hazel eyes are enlarged by her prescription. Long robes of crushed red velvet accentuate her impressive height. She waits to speak until the room isquiet, then lifts her chin. “‘The use of rational speech is more distinctive of a human being than the use of his limbs.’ Who said that?”
Cassius raises his relaxed hand, his elbow still resting on the desk. “Aristotle.”
“Excellent. What does that mean?”
Another young man raises his hand. “It can be expressed as a simple syllogism. Distinctive features of humans are those that are not shared with animals, and thus, rational speech is more human than even our corporeal form.”
“That’s an enthymeme, George,” the girl next to him scolds. “You’re onlyimplyingthe minor premise that rational speech is uniquely human. You need to say it directly for it to be a syllogism.”
“An enthymeme is a type of syllogism, Florence.”
“It’s an incomplete syllogism. That’s why there’s a different word for it.”
Wagging his finger in her face, he says, “But you admit that it is, categorically, a syllogism.”
Florence rolls her eyes and offers no retort. Her opponent, George, smirks and straightens his spine as if he’s won something.
“It’s nice to see that the holiday has only strengthened your spirit of debate, Mr. Abdo and Miss Char. That’s what we’re here to do, for Aristotle also tells us that rhetoric is a necessary counterpart of dialectic. We’re here to find truths by ways of reasoning, argumentation, and persuasion.”
“And sometimes the truth hurts,” George says, glaring at Florence, who pays him no mind.
“A simple but accurate maxim. I’d go as far as to say that sometimes, when shared with poor rhetoric, the truth kills.”
“If truth can kill, can it still be good?” a young red-haired woman asks.
Excellent question, Claudia thinks. She’d love to know. Iftruth can sometimes kill, and truth is good, then that means killing is also sometimes good. Right? There’s a good syllogism for you.
Professor Olivier points to the prompt on the board. “What isgood, Miss Rowland?”
“Virtuousness.”
“Hm,” she says, dissatisfied. “True, to an extent. Virtue is good, as it’s indicative of sound condition. Virtuous people are productive of good things. But there is more to be discussed.”
A brunette with bangs smirks. “But virtue ceases to be good when it negates pleasure, for pleasure is also good.”
“Fair point, Miss Gibson, but not all that yields pleasure is good. As Isocrates said, pleasure without honor is the worst thing in the world. It’s one of his few coherent philosophies.”
“So good is pleasure attended by honor,” says a young man behind Claudia.
“But what is pleasure?” Olivier asks. She points to Claudia.
Her mouth goes dry. “Enjoyment?” she guesses. Her cheeks burn red.
