"You should have been doing Old Norse," said Quaid.
"Why?"
"They don't even bother to mark the papers on that course," said Quaid.
Steve hadn't heard about this. Quaid droned on.
"They just throw them all up into the air. Face up, an A. Face down, a B."
Oh, it was a joke. Quaid was being witty. Steve attempted a laugh, but Quaid's face remained unmoved by his own attempt at humour.
"You should be in Old Norse," he said again. "Who needs Bishop Berkeley anyhow. Or Plato. Or —"
"Or?"
"It's all shit."
"Yes."
"I've watched you, in the Philosophy Class —"
Steve began to wonder about Quaid.
"— You never take notes do you?"
"No."
"I thought you were either sublimely confident, or you simply couldn't care less."
"Neither. I'm just completely lost."
Quaid grunted, and pulled out a pack of cheap cigarettes. Again, that was not the done thing. You either smoked Gauloises, Camel or nothing at all.
"It's not true philosophy they teach you here," said Quaid, with unmistakable contempt.
"Oh?"
"We get spoon-fed a bit of Plato, or a bit of Bentham —no real analysis. It's got all the right markings of course. It looks like the beast: it even smells a bit like the beast to the uninitiated."
"What beast?"
"Philosophy. True Philosophy. It's a beast, Stephen. Don't you think?"
"I hadn't -"
"It's wild. It bites."
He grinned, suddenly vulpine. "Yes. It bites," he replied. Oh, that pleased him. Again, for luck: "Bites."
Stephen nodded. The metaphor was beyond him. "I think we should feel mauled by our subject." Quaid was warming to the whole subject of mutilation by education. "We should be frightened to juggle the ideas we should talk about."