Tom Wolfe - I Am Charlotte Simmons

“And Wilson experienced what every research scientist lives for,” said Mr. Starling, “the Aha! phenomenon, that flash of synthesis that will revolutionize the field. If there were similarities—analogies—between the social lives of ants and apes, why wouldn’t Homo sapiens be part of the same picture? The analogies came flooding to his mind.” Mr. Starling paused, then looked about the amphitheater with a mischievous smile. “But just as Nature abhors a vacuum, Science abhors analogies. Analogies are regarded as superficial, as ‘literary,’ which to the scientific mind—and certainly to Wilson’s—means impressionistic. Now…since Science abhors analogies, just how did Wilson go about showing that from ants to humans the social life of all animals was similar—and more than similar, in fact, since in all animals it was part of a single biological system?” Mr. Starling scanned the hundred and fifty students before him. “Who will be so kind as to provide us with the answer?”

Charlotte, like so many others, craned this way and that to see if any hands were up. She herself didn’t have the faintest idea. She had scarcely even looked at Wilson’s book, which was called Sociobiology: The New Synthesis—not A New Synthesis, but capital-T The New Synthesis. How could she have, given all she had been through for the past two months? So many students were craning about in their desk chairs to see if any brave soul was going to tackle that one, their chairs made a creaking, shuffling choral sound.

A hand went up barely three feet away from Charlotte…a girl two rows directly ahead of her. Long, straight light brown hair she had brushed until it absolutely shone. Oh, Charlotte knew about such things.

Mr. Starling gazed upward. His line of vision was such that Charlotte could have sworn he was looking straight at her…but of course he wasn’t. He pointed, and it was as if he were pointing straight at her.

“Yes?”

The girl with the shining light brown hair said, “He used allometry? If that’s the way you pronounce it? In all my born days”—bawn days—“I never heard a living soul say that word out loud.”

Laughter and chuckles all around. All miii bawn days. Countless faces were smiling at her. She had not only a Southern accent but a quite coy, little-ol’-me Southern accent.

“Would you define allometry for us?”

“I’ll certainly try.” I-i-i-i’ll sutney try-y-y-y. Appreciative chuckles. “Allometry…allometry is the study of the relative growth of a part of an organism in relation to the growth of the whole. It’s a really—what’s the expression—bangin’ way to describe morphological evolution…is the way Iiiii’d put it.”

Renewed laughter, wholly with her! Such learned, esoteric material pouring forth in a flirtatious, Savannah deb-party Southern accent! This Dixie chick knew what she was doing!

“Very good,” said Mr. Starling. He had a big smile of his own. “And perhaps you can tell us why this allometry was so useful to Wilson.”

“Well,” said the girl, “it’s like this new dance?” Laughter, laughter, before she could even name the dance. “Allometry enabled Mr. Wilson to like…do the submarine?” Laughter, laughter, laughter. “He went down…under the anecdotal level, the surface level?…and found mathematically corroborant first principles?”—fuhst principles—“and that way he doesn’t”—dud’n—“have to say an ant is like a human being or that a…a…I don’t know…a baboon is like a sea slug?—because he can show that behavior at that evolutionary level is demonstrably—or I reckon I should say allometrically?—the same as behavior at this evolutionary level…seems like to me.”

Laughter, laughter, laughter, even scattered applause—and some boy shouted out, “You go, girl!” Another round of laughter—and then all eyes turned to Mr. Starling to get his reaction.

He was smiling right at the girl—and right in the direction of Charlotte. “Thank you,” he said. A pause, during which he continued to smile at his new discovery, the Savannah-drawling, flirtatious little prodigy. “Seems to me,” he said, “absolutely correct.” Laughter, laughter. He gazed out on the entire class. “Science abhors analogies. But science loves—or accepts—allometry, even when it finds its equations insoluble. But that problem needn’t detain us.” Then he turned back to his little star comedienne, smiled at her once more. “Thank you.”

As it beamed up, the smile had hit Charlotte Simmons, too…and gone right through her. His former star, the one with the hillbilly Southern accent, was no longer even there. It was as if God had devised a little skit to show Charlotte Simmons how far she had fallen…replaced by another Southern girl, who had materialized right in front of her…same size, same long, straight, shining light brown hair…astounding the class with her brilliance…in a Southern accent…from the sophisticated coastal lowlands. Why hadn’t Charlotte Simmons done the same reading? Why hadn’t she kept up? Why hadn’t she found time to think about these things…and have a life of the mind? She knew she shouldn’t dwell on the answer. She couldn’t afford to lapse back into tears. Adam was right. Tears, all tears, starting at the moment of birth, were cries for protection. But she didn’t want to dwell upon Adam and the matrical dialogues of the Millennial Mutants, either.

Outside, after class, it was a cloudy, dark day, as if it were about to rain…Once more the mystery of why this light made the grass of the Great Yard look so richly green…In any case, the gloom was fitting for any girl as morosely self-loathing as Charlotte was at this moment, and she was thankful for that.

There was a more immediate concern, however. She gave the Great Yard a quick, surreptitious once-over…for fear Adam would be waiting, here, there, somewhere nearby, and reattach himself to her. He was becoming her…personal tumor :::::I:::::LOVE:::::YOU:::::HONEY:::::

Ohmygod!—how could she think that way? Adam was the only friend she had left. But it wasn’t something she was thinking. It was something crawling beneath her flesh…Honey…How could she help it?

“Hey, yo! Yo!”—right behind her, but it wasn’t Adam’s voice.

She turned about slowly. She was in no rush. Who on the entire campus could be shouting at her in order to bring her good news?

And there was Jojo…not much improvement over Adam, if any…hustling toward her with big strides. He wore the would-be ingratiating smile he seemed to think would make one want to do something for him. Charlotte was already familiar with that. At least he didn’t have one of his disgusting muscle shirts…instead, a navy shirt, maybe flannel, with regular buttons and a collar…beneath a vast, wide-open puffy North Face jacket…made him look like a behemoth, it added such width and bulk to his frame…How did he—but of course…he remembered from the last time when neuroscience let out.

Now he was right in front of her, looking down at her with his transparently manipulative smile. Charlotte refused to smile back.

“Wuz up? Wuz good?”

Charlotte said nothing. She just lifted her eyebrows in order to wrinkle her forehead, which delivered the message, “Don’t be tedious.”

“I haven’t told you the big news,” said Jojo. An even bigger, merrier smile.

Perfunctorily: “What big news, Jojo?” She started walking on the sidewalk beside the Great Yard, hoping to get away from Phillips in case Adam did show up looking for her.

Jojo tagged along. “I’m taking French 232 this semester.” His little eyes opened as wide as they could, as if this news would register in a big way.

Idly: “What’s that?’

“Nineteenth Century Poetry: the Courtly, the Pastoral, and the Symbolist—and we read it in French. I’m not kidding. And she teaches it in French. Miz Boudreau. She is French, Miz Boudreau. This isn’t Frère Jocko French. I’m through with all that stuff.” He gave Charlotte the child’s smile that invites praise.