Aristotle’s Pigeons

The Webster stories, "Webster's Diction" , are best read in order.

This story is lecture #4, part of a series of lectures given by Professor Webster, in "Webster's Diction" . Lecture #1 is "The Color of God" , #2 is "Silence in G Minor"  and lecture #3 is "Three Hats, a Blind Man and a Dime" .

Aristotle’s Pigeons

“Galileo Galilei!”

‘Come Mr. Tally man, tally me banana’

“Galileo Galilei!” Webster beats the drum again with the tip of his tongue.

‘Daylight come and me wanna go home.’ Carlisle interjects, sans sound, of-course, while playing imaginary bongos to boot, thinking Webster may be looking for accompaniment today.

“Revolution!”

‘Whoa, that took a nasty turn,’ Carlisle shrugs his shoulders, ‘but I can roll with it Webster, I can roll with it - So you say you wanna re-vo-lution? Weh–hell, you know, we all want to change the world.’

“Can you imagine, in this day-and-age, someone proving something so revolutionary, so challenging to your most ardent beliefs, as to make you fearful of the dark?” Webster says, with great emphasis on ‘imagine’ and ‘fearful,’ while holding out his cupped hand, as if he were Atlas, holding the world for show-and-tell.

“The sun will come out tomorrow. Would you bet your bottom dollar on that Mr. Carlisle?”

‘How the hell do I keep him from getting in my head - I better not say hell, heck, is that better, heck,’ Carlisle feels invaded by Webster’s unnatural perceptivity.


“The sun will come up tomorrow. Good as gold, right?” Webster still holds the world in his right hand, and now produces a yellow golf ball, moving it in circles around the world. Lauren wonders where he got the golf ball, she imagines he hasn’t seen a patch of green since he brought in the ‘New Peas’ color swatch.

“For all of time, the world stood still. And children caught the wind without fear of falling. For all of time the world stood still, and Aristotle’s pigeons always found their way home.”

“Can you imagine something so revolutionary as thinking the world revolves around the sun. Laughable really, people hanging on for dear life, birds returning to their nests, only to find them miles away, children having to run, to catch balls they threw straight up in the air – laughable. Laughable and blasphemous.” Webster looked to the ceiling and brought his hands together, as in prayer, holding the sun in the palms of his hands.

“Copernicus thought it, but he would not say it. Inquisitive minds did not want to know.” Webster covers his ears.

‘Inquiring minds do want to know,’ thought Gupta, as did his mates, all on the edge of their seats.

“Copernicus thought it, but Galileo said it. Well, it took him nearly one hundred years - he stuttered a little.” To which there was a choreographed outflow of breath, a cautious laugh, one might say.

“When a lie is a truth, the pious still punish you.” If eyebrows could play bongos, Webster would have tremendous accompaniment.

“Can you imagine something so crude as me proving, this here day, that the sun is a pimple on an elephant’s behind.” Now, Gupta took offence, albeit modest, for the sun may very well be a bump on Ganesh’s hind-end.

“An artist only paints what he wants you to see, there is so much beyond the frame. And when the colors dried on the Last Supper, what truths be told then, what truths be told.”

“Don’t let your senses fool you, for they told Aristotle the world stood still, and the sun would come up tomorrow. Don’t bet your bottom dollar Mr. Carlisle, for there was a wager outside the frame.” Webster loved the Elvis lips, he knew just how to bring them out. And the bongos, oh, the bongos.

“Professor Webster,” Cabra’s hand is raised, but only slightly above his head, “I don’t understand the part about the frame.” No-one, but Cole, was quite sure they understood any of it, and she was hoping no-one would ask, after all, she enjoyed Gupta’s attention after each lecture.

“Mr. Cabra,” Webster responded, as he perused his desk, “let me show you something,” he landed the worn-out piece of taffeta, ocean blue, Muriel called it, ocean green he contended, “what color is this taffeta?” Webster continues, now holding the taffeta by the light of the sun.

“Green, I think, yes, green.”

Webster smiled, “and what do you think Ms. Cole?” Webster rotated to face Cole at the other end of the classroom.

“Blue, sir.”

“Like the ocean?” Webster held his breath.

“No, like last Wednesday’s sky.” She said, matter-of-factly.

“Well, you’re both wrong. And you’re both right. Truth is in the eye of the beholder. And what’s outside the frame, you can’t see.” Cabra turned to his notes, while Gupta, much to Cole’s delight, was still twirling his pencil.

“The truths you can’t see are sometimes the most credible. We learned that last week, did we not. And then there are those truths we know with conviction, I think, therefore I am. Everything else is perception.” Webster rolls the golf ball on the palm of his hand.

“Perception, the recipe for conditional truth. The secrets of nature are hidden from us, but we uncover them, from time to time, and we add them to our bucket of truths. I’ve seen it with my own eyes!” Webster pulls off his glasses and squints into a wall of stares. A couple of tongues are offered in jest, for everyone knows his eyes aren’t as good as his ears.

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes. What greater authority do I need?” Webster replaces his glasses, while several tongues are swallowed in haste.

“Authority. The greatest fallacy of logic.”

“Now get out of here!” Webster adds his own brand of authority, leaving some wondering if they should stick around.


Gupta’s Notes:


Gupta’s been negotiating a fine line, between ignorance and love. His ignorance has been the key to Cole’s undivided attention, but respect will be the key to her love, at least that’s what his father always said. Perhaps he will ask her to tea. Maybe she would like the sweet Pongal his mother made. Its frozen, which is perfect, they can discuss the lesson while the Pongal thaws. He could warm it, but it wouldn’t be the same. A slow thaw makes it sugary soft, a perfect chaser to Cole’s symphonic tutorial.

She agrees to tea, without much hesitation, and a slow thaw is just fine with her. She responds to the rising of his eyebrows by taking his hand. His body fills with angst, and he can’t think, its all he can do to keep from tripping over his own feet. ‘Dear God, what do I say, what do I do?’ He had captured the sun, in the palm of his hand, and it was alarmingly cool to the touch. He thought his body would blow with the wind, were it not anchored by a ballooning hand. ‘Say something.’ But anything he could say would be insignificant, for you can’t make small talk when you’re holding the sun.

“So what did you think of Gupta’s lecture?” Gupta says, looking at his hand.

“You mean Webster, I take it?” She chuckled, feeling him melt in the palm of her hand.

“Right, right,” he wants desperately to wipe his sweaty palm, but the earth is moving much too fast and he’s afraid to let go of the sun, “of course, Webster.” Gupta lets out a gush of air, not quite a laugh, and not quite a cough, but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances.

“Well, Webster, I think, is telling us that outside of intuitive truths, and truths we can deduct without the aid of our senses, all other truths depend on our senses and our experience, what he calls contingent truths.”

‘There’s no greater truth than the hand of a woman.’ Gupta felt awfully poetic, he even had a bounce to his step, which made it hard for Cole to concentrate. “When a lie is a truth, the pious still punish you. What the hell was that?” Gupta’s gait seems more confident now.

“He means, I think,” she conditions her certainty again, to keep his interest, “that truth and religion are a function of the times. And the times people live in, are like a snapshot on a canvass. We see what the artist wants us to see, I think he’s speaking of God again, don’t you?” She wants Gupta to feel more relaxed. She continues, “Galileo was banished by the Inquisition for the true lies he wrote.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Gupta pulls a comfortable stride now, “when the color dries, what truths be told, I think he means after the passing of time, we uncover more truths. I get it,” Gupta, in his excitement, pulls his hand away to draw a frame in the emptiness before him, “beyond the frame there was a wager, Judas knew it was the last supper, he and Jesus were the only ones who knew the truth, to the others this was a supper like any other supper. To them the sun would rise tomorrow, but it didn’t.” He picked up his pace again, Cole could barely keep up with him now. “How do we know the sun will rise tomorrow, how do we know?” He grabs the sun to improve his chances.

Tired of his own voice, and longing for hers, he says, “what’s with Wednesday’s sky? What color was Wednesday’s sky anyway?”

“I have no idea, I just wanted to put Webster on the defensive for once.” She giggled, and caught herself.

“What about the taffeta, Cole, why the taffeta?”

“Truth is like a sheet of taffeta, each time we look at it, it has a different hue.” Cole had read something along these lines in one of Kundera’s books, perhaps it was the Unbearable Lightness of Being, she couldn’t remember. “You know, knowledge is limited to experience, but experiences change, perceptions change. In time you can look back on an event and see a different truth. Truths, gained by experience, are conditional – you know what I mean?” There is no condition to Gupta’s experience. The hairs on his arms disregard gravity, and he thinks he will float with Aristotle’s pigeons.


If you enjoy this type of story, please read professor Webster's other stories, which I will add to from time to time, in "Webster's Diction" .The Next Story is "Waiter, There is Fate in my Soup" .