The Bohemian

by Bill Bowler

Chapter 3. Professor Mrak

Young Walter Wobble quits school to go out into the world and find the People. With no money or prospects, he works as a busboy while writing poetry and dreaming of success. Through his tenement window, he watches from afar a young woman who lives across the street until, one day, they meet. Unfortunately there is already another man in Cynthia’s life, a man Wobble knows: he is Josef Mrak, and he has some very bad karma.

In my third and last semester at NYU, I had signed up for The Economics of Art 301, a class of 200 students in a lecture hall, taught jointly by faculty from the Economics, Political Science and Art History Departments. Professor Mrak, from Political Science, was highly respected by his colleagues and admired by his students. He was known for his brilliant intellect, for the precision of his analyses and the unexpected flourishes of his rhetoric. Comparisons were even drawn to the Golden Age when Kant and Hegel were teaching in German universities in the early 1800’s.

Professor Mrak was a gifted public speaker. He lectured dramatically, with gesticulation and pauses. His logic was iron; his conclusions beautiful in their inevitability. He would begin simply enough. You would accept a simple premise, and that was it. He had you. You were hooked. There was no escape. He would lead you step by inexorable step to a foregone conclusion with which you thought you had originally disagreed.

In ancient Greece, it was said, Mrak would have been an orator; in Rome, a Senator. There were already murmurings of his potential in the political arena, in the area of foreign policy, especially given his vast knowledge and expertise in comparative market theory and political economy, which he had used as a springboard in developing novel approaches to issues in enforcement of democracy and military solutions to political problems.

Unfortunately, I was not able to take full advantage of my exposure to Professor Mrak. My patience with college had already worn thin. It seemed like a little club where they all played their little games and took their little selves way too seriously. The Ivory Tower had become for me a prison with bars of boredom.

Professor Mrak had been educated at Charles University in Prague where his coursework in Economics and Political Philosophy had been complemented by studies in the Humanities as required by the curriculum. He had thereby acquired, in addition to his readings in market force analysis and military-political decision making, what could be called a working knowledge of belles lettres.

In the interdisciplinary Economics of Art course offering at NYU, Prof. Mrak lectured for a full week on Poe as the primary example of his subject “The Economic Failure of the Romantic Artist.” This was when Mrak demolished the first of my idols. My love for Poe was unbounded. I soared on his diction and rhythms. I craved his sweet words and the bell-like toll of his mournful words.

In his analysis of Poe, Mrak touched upon the business of art, theory of pricing, and market-driven art. He examined “The Raven” as commodity and analyzed the profit potential and inherent market risk of “Annabel Lee.” I was bored to tears when I wasn’t seething with indignation. But it only got worse when Mrak moved on in week two to “The Political Failure of the Romantic Artist” with Lorca as his prime example.

Then, Mrak flunked me on the first hour exam. There was a question regarding Poe’s failure to manage his finances, his importunate squandering of his modest earnings and subsequent demise. I had intended to devote only a few short sentences, by way of introduction, to Poe’s poetry itself before addressing the central question. But I got carried away and was rudely interrupted ten pages later, in the midst of my introductory remarks, by Prof. Mrak’s voice announcing, “The hour is up. Please stop writing and turn in your papers at once.”

Mrak quickly collected the test papers. Mine came back a week later with a large red capital “F” at the top and a scrawled note, “Please see me in my office after class.”

In his office, Mrak leaned back from his desk, clasped his hands, looked up at the ceiling, and dropped his palms to the desk top with a sigh.

“At this rate, young man, you are in danger of failing this course. Have you given any thought to pursuing some other field for which you might have more aptitude?”

I took his suggestion under advisement and continued to attend class while considering my options. The last time I was to see him in academic surroundings was the third week of the semester. He was delivering his final lecture of the course before his colleagues from the Economics and Art History Departments got their turns at bat.

Rather than summarizing the material covered, Mrak moved on to more general, philosophical questions. He stood erect at the front of the class, brushed a lock of distinguished, rather long gray hair from his forehead, and gripped the podium, speaking into the mike with his sonorous bass voice and the clipped phrasing of a vaguely central European accent.

“It was not until my reading had progressed from the Romantic Idealists to Bakunin and Marx that I began to appreciate the attraction of Pragmatism. Theoretical and philosophical edifices are constructed after the fact, in accordance with the actions that had been taken of necessity. Thus, the ultimate philosophy: shoot first and ask questions later.

“The American Revolution was a violent affair resulting in the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent men, women and children. But it was fought in the name of liberty and freedom. It was therefore justified.

“The defeat of Hitler was a dreadful, bloody business. Millions upon millions were slaughtered. But the defeat of Nazism was a historical necessity and accomplished in the name of that greater good.

“Individuals may well be crushed on the gears of history, yet progress must advance. The strong survive, in any case...”

I was slouched in the back row, bored to death, near an attractive co-ed whom I desired to impress.

The Professor droned on: “Compromise impedes progress. Ironically, it is in the Communist countries, with their dull mediocrity and lack of incentive, that alienation of the working class has reached its most profound levels. The irony of history viewed in retrospect. It is precisely under such circumstances that the ultimate futility of the act of artistic creation becomes most apparent and the absence of utility of the artistic endeavor most striking...”

Something snapped inside me. I don’t know what, but the devil took my tongue. “Professor!” I shouted out. “Is that a crock of you know what or what?”

The class laughed, fueling my vanity. I shouted out again, “You may be an alienated worker in Russia, but at least you have a job.”

“Have you quite finished?”

“What difference does it make?”

I stalked out of the lecture hall and, without much further adieu, out of NYU, with feelings of good riddance on the part of both parties, no doubt.

I had thought, when I dropped out, that I had seen the last of Professor Mrak. I thought I had left all that behind, wiped the slate clean and opened a new chapter.

As I sat out on my fire escape, the city glittering around me, the cacophonous symphony of horns and voices, and the dull roar of engines incessant in the background, the dark sky overhead, I wondered what he could possibly have been doing, then, in Cynthia’s apartment?

Proceed to Chapter 4...

to Challenge 349...