Ruminating on St. Augustine's Confessions, the great Professor Quentin Anderson sat at the head of the boardroom table, we twelve or so sophomores tucked around in confidence of his sage and gentle pronouncements on the humanity lessons of our lifetime. A few floors up in Hamilton Hall, the cool fall air wafted in whistles of birds in the courtyard snuggled between John Jay, Livingston, the tennis court and our lofty, intimate cabal. The Professor puffed his smoking pipe as clouds of burnt cedar swirled above and dropped to envelope we eager attentive naifs, eyes all wide and focused on the master as he read beautifully aloud Augustine's mystical musings on the good Saint's resoundingly rapturous final conversion to Christianity. We were mesmerized and vulnerable. "How many of you have experienced such epiphanic joy enveloped in the sheer sensuality of bliss, feeling powerful and potent, at one with the universe and yourself, as if at the moment of orgasm?" he promiscuously invited, our mouths dropping, self-congratulatory smirks creeping onto our teenage hormone-pumped pusses. All hands went up, including my sexy starlet friend and (Barnard) classmate Georgeanne's. "Ahhhhhhhhh," a boat-sized puff of pipe effluent encased us, "but how many of you have felt it with your mother's hand resting gently on your shoulder?" All hands went down. Seminar ended. And we went out into the courtyard, still smirking, and feeling ever so much smarter for having sat and learned from the gracious and elegant totem Anderson at Columbia College. All Hail!