My favorite self-destructive candidate was a young philosophy graduate who delivered his opening-day introduction to the course. Several rivals had handed out syllabi and lectured on course rules. Yawn. But he began, “I am … ” — then clenched his face and grimaced while uttering his name. “And this is … ” — he sighed as if about to reveal the Ark of the Covenant — “Philosophy 101.”

Scorning preliminary definitions or rules, he drew Plato's cave on the board, complete with men, sun, shadows, and perhaps mice and lollipops, then announced, “This is a lesson in symbols. To study philosophy is to recognize the cave. Philosophy is not afraid of anything! Nothing!” He groaned like Prometheus having his liver pecked out by the eagle. “So how does learning happen?”

He turned toward the board as though to write, then spun back with wild eyes and cried, “I don't know!” His eight “students” jerked back as if Beelzebub had sprung at us. “What's going on here? I don't know!” He stared at his notes, then brushed them to the floor. “We will wrestle with the important questions. We will be afraid of nothing!” His passion swelled and deflated six times a minute as anguish and chaos battled for his soul.