Dear Club Members, Sponsors, and Friends,

The requirement bewildered me.  As a major in foreign languages in college, I had to complete eight semesters of philosophy – – one course per semester for four years.  It was a rare requirement, usually applied to philosophy majors.  Nevertheless, during the first semester of my freshman year, the requirement seemed benign.  The focus of the initial course was logic and reason, logic being the systematic study of thinking and reason being the application of logic to understand or judge something.  I admired the professor’s intelligence, the clarity of the required text, and the practical applications of course content.  

During the spring semester of my freshman year, the philosophy course was decidedly darker.  It focused primarily on existentialism, which is concerned with the search for the meaning, purpose and values of one’s life.  I remembered reading, in high school, books written by famous existentialist authors:  The Stranger by Albert Camus and No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre. 

The books were disturbingly somber.  I distinctly recall two quotes.  Camus once asked, “Shall I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?”  Sartre proclaimed, “What is life but an unpleasant interruption to a peaceful nonexistence?” Even back in high school, it struck me that these were two people I would not invite to a birthday party.

In addition to Camus and Sartre, my classmates and I studied Kafka, Dostoyevsky, Kierkegaard, and other prominent existentialist authors during our second semester of college.  The texts were ponderous.  Reading about the absurdity of human existence and the absence of any transcendent force in life, including God, was not a lighthearted endeavor for nineteen-year-olds.  It did not help that, at about the same time, radical theologians, William Hamilton and Thomas Altizer, asked the gut-punch question on the cover of Time Magazine: “Is God Dead?”  Mind you, they were not positing that God was merely irrelevant; they were declaring that God was actually dead.  The timing of the declaration could not have been worse.  The atrocities of the Vietnam War and setbacks in the civil rights movement were making daily headlines.  Osho, leader of the Rajneesh movement, piled on by declaring that The Question was not, “Is there life after death?” but “Is there life after birth?”

Reading existentialist literature profoundly impacted John, one of my fellow foreign language majors.  (Names in this article have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.)  He took to heart the arguments of absurdism.  He grew a goatee, began wearing a black beret, and took up smoking cheap, strong, and unfiltered Gauloises cigarettes produced in France.  He pinched the cigarette between his thumb and index finger when he smoked, like a stereotypical French scholar.  John was from Minnesota and was away from home during the entire academic year.  When he left his parents to attend college back East, he looked like one of the Beach Boys.  When he returned to them the following spring, he looked like Che Guevara. I can’t imagine their shock.  I often wonder what happened to him after graduation.

The philosophy courses were a journey to opaqueness and convolution.  The texts became denser and more impenetrable.  The last course in the second semester of my senior year focused on epistemology, which is the study of knowledge – – can knowledge ever be absolute?  The course had two sections taught by two different professors.  My objective was to avoid enrolling in the section taught by Professor Erasmus. (Remember, names have been changed.)  He was a stern, humorless intellectual who was known to give failing grades to seniors.  It was rumored that the average grade in his class was “C,” which does not look good on a college transcript when looking for a job. 

D Day for me was Wednesday, December 10, toward the end of the first semester of my senior year.  On that day, students would receive their course assignments for the spring semester in their mailboxes at the Student Union.  I planned to go to my mailbox as soon as the Student Union opened at 9:00 a.m.   If I had the bad luck of being assigned to Professor Erasmus, I would run, not walk, to the registrar’s office across campus and ask for reassignment to the other section of the course.  I told no one my plan because only a few seats would probably be left in the preferred section. 

Not surprisingly, most of my fellow foreign language majors had the same idea, as did several philosophy majors.  Word was out about Professor Erasmus.  We waited anxiously for the Student Union to open.  When it did, we rushed to our mailboxes to learn our fate.  Some of the students yelled in celebration of their assignment to the preferred section of the epistemology course; others sprinted out of the Student Union toward the registrar’s office.  Because so many of us were running in regular clothes in the same direction that early morning, a few students followed us thinking that something exciting might be happening on campus. 

We lined up in the hallway outside the registrar’s office and waited for it to open.  There were approximately twenty-five students there; I was sixth in line.  If the requests to change sections were based on a first-come, first-served basis, I thought that I might have a chance, limited as it might be, to transfer to the other section. The assistant registrar emerged from the office at 9:30 a.m.  She was a veteran, officious administrator.  She was not surprised to see us; she knew why we were there.  The assistant registrar raised her voice to announce that only students with extenuating circumstances would be permitted to leave Professor Erasmus’ section for another.  She then stabbed us with the following declaration: “In my eighteen years as assistant registrar, no extenuating circumstance has warranted a change in section.”  It was devastating news.  Moans uprose from the crowd.  As we began to disperse, Tyson, our class clown, yelled to the assistant registrar from the end of the line, “What about a terminal illness?”  Then, as he frantically waved a piece of paper over his head, he added, “I have a note from my doctor!”  I found out later that he was holding a menu from a local restaurant.

My final semester of college arrived.  I entered the epistemology classroom; all the seats in the back of the room were already taken.  I waited with my classmates for the arrival of Professor Erasmus.  We were silent; there was no glad-to-see-you banter.  Erasmus arrived as the campus clock chimed at 2:00 p.m.  His salutation was limited to “Good afternoon.”  He instructed his course assistant to distribute the syllabus and commenced his lecture.  He talked for sixty minutes without the benefit of notes or even an outline.  He had nothing written in front of him.  There was no Socratic Method of asking students probing questions; there was no interplay between professor and students.  At the end of his first lecture, he asked if there were any questions.  One enterprising student asked for a clarification.  Erasmus’ answer took fifteen minutes beyond dismissal time.  No student asked another question thereafter – – for the entire semester.

I made important discoveries in the first three weeks of the epistemology course.  Erasmus’ lectures were completely improvised; they had little, if any, connection to required readings.  It was impossible to discern the central theme of the lectures because the professor was continuously traveling from concept to concept during them.  They might have been the insights of a brilliant mind; they might have been gobbledygook.  I don’t believe any students in the class could tell the difference.  On a practical level, it was apparent that Erasmus was not going to develop a seating chart, which meant that it was very unlikely that he would know the names of any of us in the class.  Therefore, asking probing questions or employing other do-gooder methods to curry Erasmus’ favor would be ineffective.

It was challenging to follow Professor Erasmus’ lectures without one’s mind wondering.  His explanations of a concept or two would inevitably be lost to one’s inability to maintain focus.  To ensure we didn’t miss anything, four of my classmates and I purchased a tape recorder.  Tape recorders at the time were primitive by today’s standards.  Ours approached the size of a first-generation Moog Synthesizer.  It was not easy to schlep to class; carrying it across campus put us squarely in the hyper-nerd category.  Nevertheless, with Professor Erasmus’ permission, we set it up next to his lectern and dutifully recorded every class.  After each class, we listened to the recordings and invited our classmates to do the same at their convenience, at no cost.  No one listened to the tapes beyond the fifth class.  They did not help.  Also, most of us discovered that listening to the taped lectures in the privacy of our dorm rooms was a potent anesthesia.  Regardless, my comrades and I continued to bring the recorder to class.  We feared that stopping might signal disinterest in the lectures or in Erasmus himself. 

The midterm examination was a straightforward assessment.  Professor Erasmus gave us twelve questions to answer on our own. (Two of the questions would be on the midterm, which Professor Erasmus would select on exam day.)  Each answer had to be approximately 1,250 words, which equates to about nine pages in an examination blue book.  Unfortunately, the questions were not directly related to specific sections of the required text; and, of course, there were no clear connections between them and the lectures.  In addition, the answers had to be uniquely our own; there could be no similarity to the answers of other students, which meant, of course, we were all on our own.

In writing my answers to the questions, I decided not to focus on the lectures.  The concepts were too scattered throughout them.  Instead, I doubled down my review of the text.  I highlighted in different colors the paragraphs and sentences that pertained to concepts related to each question and, verbatim, stitched them together with a sprinkling of transitional phrases.  In the end, the answers reminded me of taxidermy done by an amateur – – sewn together but obviously not craftmanship.  I then spent hours and hours, every free minute I had, memorizing word for word each of the twelve answers, knowing that I did not understand all that I wrote.  Exam day arrived; no notes or memory aids were permitted.  I answered the two questions and left the classroom in relief.  

In the beginning of class the following week, Professor Erasmus wrote the distribution of midterm grades on the blackboard.  There were one “A,” seven “Bs,” a large number of “Cs,” and one “F.”  He exclaimed that one student’s answers were exceptional, even publishable.  Like everyone else in the room, I assumed that Derek, our brilliant class valedictorian and soon-to-be Rhodes Scholar, received the “A.”  In the meantime, I could see the grades on the blue books when the course assistant was handing them back to the students.  Classmates whose intellect I admired received “Cs.”  I prepared myself for the worse, ready to live in ignominy.

The course assistant finished giving back the blue books, but I did not receive mine.  I tiptoed to her desk and told her I did not get my grade.  She apologized for forgetting; Professor Erasmus wanted to see me after class.  My heartbeat during the next sixty minutes was at stroke level.  Did I receive the solitary failing grade on the midterm?  During those tortuous moments, I made many promises to God, to live a virtuous life, with exemplary attendance at church – – every day if God wanted.  I implored simply that He (or She) spare me academic ruin.  

Class finally ended.  I approached Professor Erasmus; it was the first time I was within twenty-five feet of him.  He shook my hand enthusiastically and told me that he was greatly impressed by my insightful, concise, and literate answers on the midterm.  They were worthy of publication.  Of course, his compliment was on target; virtually all of the answers had already been published in the text.  He went on to say that taking a final examination would be a waste of my time.  Instead, he preferred that I assist him with some curriculum work, which never materialized.  I stood in shock and in silence.  The great Enlightenment philosopher, Immanuel Kant, would have taken the position that my silence was a form of fraud – – a purposeful deception for personal gain.  However, there was a greater good in my mind:  saving Professor Erasmus from the embarrassment of finding out that he did not recognize verbatim and regurgitated text.  I told no one my grade.  I escaped from college two months later.

I had not thought about my philosophy courses in more than fifty years, until an auto journalist recently used the term “sui generis” to describe the new Porsche Taycan.  He used it as a synonym for the adjective “unique,” which is now common usage of the term, but the usage would not pass muster in philosophy class.  In philosophy, sui generis describes an idea or entity that cannot be reduced to a lower concept and cannot be included in a higher concept.  In other words, the term identifies or describes something that never was before and will never be again.  Some historians, for example, believe that Leonardo da Vinci was a sui generis human being.  His mind and creativity were so astounding that there will never be anyone like him again.  Likewise, many music critics think that Miles Davis and Bill Evan’s jazz piece, “Kind of Blue,” was a sui generis masterpiece.  Never again, they believe, would there be such a brilliant mix of melodies, improvisation, and style. 

The Taycan is expressly different from previous Porsches, but it is not a sui generis automobile.  And I am glad it is not.  Every time I drive my Taycan, I feel its derivations from the magnificent Porsches that came before it.  Although its proportions are different and its propulsion is unusual, it drives like a 911.  It might reveal its 5,000-pound weight at the race track, but it is a glorious ride around the curves and down the straightaways to Lime Rock.  The Taycan is a sports car with four doors, a sports sedan that goes from 0 to 60 almost as fast as a GT3.  It is far closer to a Carrera than to a Panamera, which cossets you in more supple suspension and sacrifices some precision in handling for luxury.  The Taycan outsold Panameras and 911s last year.  Pundits expected the Taycan would eclipse Panamera sales.  They now believe the Taycan is also affecting 911 sales because it has similar performance to the 911, is more practical, and is the new, environmentally-conscious “in-thing” – – an electric Porsche.  Porsche A.G. reveals its vision of the future in the Taycan.  In doing so, it demonstrates its dedication to dominance in engineering and racing.  The spirit of ingenuity and the quest for pure performance are alive in Stuttgart.

The Taycan is a great car but not for everyone.  It requires an embrace of technology.  If you still use a flip-open cell phone and limit your computer use to sending and receiving emails, this car might not be for you.  To enjoy ownership of a Taycan, you should, for your convenience, use a smart phone to monitor the charge of its lithium-ion battery and use the internet for operating tutorials and owner forums.  In addition, you must become knowledgeable of commercial direct charging, home charging, and maximizing mileage range.  Electrify America public-charging stations will replace your visits to gas stations.  

Driving within the Taycan’s 265-mileage range is an attractive and straightforward pleasure.  When you return home, you plug in the charger and walk away.  The charger will do its job during the hours you designated in your settings, saving money with off-hour electrical rates in late night and early morning.  If your miles to and from work are within its battery range, the Taycan is a commuter’s dream.  If you have a rare, exceptionally long commute requiring a recharge, you might be able to recharge the battery with a 240-watt electrical outlet at work or a similar arrangement.  Otherwise, you would use a commercial direct-charge station.  Most long-distance commuters need only twenty minutes or so of direct-charge time to make it home.  

With one exception, recharging my Taycan’s battery has been easy.  Most of the time, I plug in the charger at home.  I use Porsche’s Charging Planner on occasional trips out of state, which tracks overall travel time for long distances while scheduling charging stops.  When I was returning from Vermont last February, I decided to stop at a charging station when I still had a thirty percent charge on the battery because the temperature outside was six degrees Fahrenheit.  Low temperatures (and fast driving speeds) degrade a battery charge and compromise mileage range, sometimes significantly. It was late at night; I didn’t want any complications driving home. When I arrived at the single-unit charging station, a car was plugged into it.  The owner was nowhere to be seen and did not return to the car during the thirty minutes I waited in line.  It was a frustrating experience.  (Think of the times you were in line at a gas station, and the person in front of you went into the store for five minutes without moving his car from the pump after gassing up.)  I decided to travel on, remembering the many times I saw an electric car parked overnight at the single-unit charging station in the center of my town.  I was tired.  I took the risk of driving the rest of the way home without a charge.  When I arrived home, the battery charge was down to three percent.  During the last miles of the trip, I suffered range anxiety.  I will not do something like that again.  In fact, I now drive a gas-powered car to Vermont, avoiding the complications of recharging the battery.  When a network of more charging stations is established in the next few years and when charging etiquette is hopefully refined, I will drive the Taycan more frequently during long trips. 

I enjoy Taycan ownership greatly.  It is a joy to drive.  I have learned, however, to be careful when I am in gear at a stop.   I unintentionally eased up on the brake once, and the car moved forward without my noticing.  Unlike a gas-powered car that might hint that it is moving with a slight change in rpm, motor sound, or transmission feel, the Taycan creeps forward seamlessly in complete silence.  I am also careful following a car downhill.  When a driver in front of me in a gas-powered car takes his foot off the accelerator, his motor’s compression slows the car without his applying the brakes.  When I take my foot off the accelerator in the Taycan, it coasts freely, deaccelerating far less quickly.  If I am not attentive, I could come too close to the car in front of me.  I am often asked if I miss the sound of a beautiful exhaust note, like in a 911, when driving the Taycan.  I thought that I would.  I don’t, probably because the predominant feature of the car’s interior is silence.  An exhaust note would be intrusive instead of enhancing the overall driving experience.  On the other hand, when I drive my 911, I always activate the sport exhaust.

One of my greatest pleasures has been owning and driving Porsches during the last thirty-five years.  The Taycan intensifies my satisfaction.  I am happy I own it – – as happy as I was when I received an “A” in epistemology.

Yours truly,