Daniel R. Foster

TOMBE’S PROOF

A Play in One Act


CHARACTERS

Dr. Adam Tombe: Stuart Professor of Philosophy; in his early to mid-thirties.

Dr. Saul Kripke: Professor Emeritus of Logic; a friend and mentor of Tombe’s; in his early sixties.

David: A doctoral candidate; a friend and pupil of Tombe’s; in his early twenties.

Eva Rippen: A beautiful fourth-year undergrad; twenty-one years old.

Eva’s female friend.

Mrs. Swanson: A prominent university Trustee.

Martin: An eccentric local and friend of Tombe’s.


SETTING

Princeton University, New Jersey. Fall.




SCENE I

Early morning—Tombe’s office. Stage lights slightly, to reveal a small, cluttered room. Bookshelves line the walls and are filled with crudely organized volumes. Tombe is seated behind a desk, which is strewn with papers and opened books. He is wearing an old corduroy blazer and an unbuttoned white dress shirt over a white t-shirt. He has a sad, confused look on his face. Opposite him, acting as a bookend on one of the shelves, is a small granite bust of Socrates.


Tombe: I know in my heart that I’m not the first man to reach the conclusions I’ve reached.

(There is a long pause)

I know there must have been others—a brilliant, miserable line of bearded bastards descending from Descartes—fumbling one step closer to the end, one after another. And Nietzsche, on his perpetual death bed, arrogantly scratching away the artifice of 5,000 years of Western civilization…he must have just glimpsed the cataclysm as the weak body took its last weak breath.

(He looks at the statue of Socrates)

How about you, old man? Did you see it in your hemlock just before you took a drink? No, you didn’t. Not you. You lived in blissful fucking ignorance. You had the luxury of talking about VIRTUE and TRUTH, as if—as if they were REAL. As if they were as real as THIS.

(He stands and tears a sheet of paper from a notebook on the desk, holding it half crumpled, his balled fist between his face and Socrates’, as if to show him.)

(Several moments pass as he calms himself and lowers the paper).

No…It can’t be right. It can’t…My God, seven steps…seven simple propositions from here to oblivion…It’s…It’s just too damned simple. It’s wrong. It’s flawed. That’s the only reasonable explanation. I had a little too much bourbon after dinner, stared at the Dali paintings in the gallery for a little too long, and came back to the office and wrote a hell of a brain-tease. That’s all it is. A fucking brain tease.

(He finishes crumpling the paper and lets it fall to the ground. He looks at his pocket watch)

Chrissakes…sixteen hours. Pull it together, Tombe. You’re talking to yourself.

(He starts to button his shirt and tuck it into his khaki pants)

You’ll go to Corwin Hall and you’ll give your lecture and you’ll forget about this proof.

(Finished with his shirt, he smoothes his hair, picks up a worn briefcase, and heads toward the door. Halfway there, he turns around, picks up the crumpled paper and puts it in his jacket pocket.)

Lights Fade.


SCENE II

Later that morning—lecture hall. Stage lights to reveal a raised lectern upstage and a chalk board behind it, covered with odd symbols. Downstage are the first few rows of what is presumably a much larger hall. About half the seats are filled. Tombe stands at the lectern, half-turned toward the board and gesturing with a piece of chalk. His voice and demeanor are clearly preoccupied.

Tombe: …So, essentially, everything we do in Propositional calculus—conjunction, disjunction, negation, implication and equivalence—it can all be done with this one operation: the Sheffer Stroke…Everything, an entire universe of reason in the flick of your wrist. Seems too easy, doesn’t it?.........Uh, anyway, for next time, finish Russell. That is all.
(As the class gets up to leave, Tombe begins to gather papers from the lectern and places them in his briefcase. Lights dim slightly upstage; lights brighten downstage, where Eva and her friend talk quietly)
Friend: Isn’t it customary to fuck a professor while you’re actually taking his class?
Eva: That’s too obvious. If you do it in the fall and then take his course in the spring, it’s more subtle. And it isn’t about getting an A anyway. I can get an A on my own.
(Upstage, Tombe is taking the crumpled up paper out of his pocket and slowly unfolding and smoothing it.)
Friend: So what is it about? The sex? I mean, he’s sort of good looking for an older guy, but…
Eva: I guess it’s about the sex. But it’s also about getting inside his head. You know, exploring his genius.
Friend: Eva, just because the guy has ‘doctor’ in front of his name doesn’t mean he’s a genius. Remember Dr. Stadler from English last semester? Guy was an idiot.
Eva: Tombe has two Ph.D.s actually—one in Philosophy from Oxford, and one in Set Theoretic Mathematics from MIT. He also has masters in Political Theory, Particle Physics and Cognitive Psychology.
Friend: Fine. He gets around. Listen, just be careful, ok? These intellectual types can be weird.
(Upstage Tombe folds the paper and puts it back in his jacket pocket. Eva notices that he is about to leave)
Eva: I will, don’t worry. I have to go catch him. See you later.
(Eva hurries toward Tombe, friend exits stage right, shaking her head)
Eva: Um, excuse me, Dr. Tombe?
Tombe: (Turning to look) Uh, yes, Miss…Miss…I’m sorry…I seem to have forgotten your name.
Eva: Oh, it’s Eva. Eva Rippen.
Tombe: Eva? I don’t think I remember an Eva on the class list—
Eva: Oh, I’m not in this course, I just came to see you lecture. I’m actually trying to get into your seminar in the spring. I’m just such a huge fan of your work.
Tombe: Thank you, I didn’t realize philosophers had ‘fans’.

(She blushes coyly)

Eva: Do you mind if I ask why you’re teaching freshman logic?

Tombe: Uh, I don’t know, really. I guess there’s something about uncorrupted minds.

Eva: (With some very flirtatious body language) Well, your students must love working with you.

Tombe: (Noticing Eva’s apparent attraction) I hope so. Listen, Eva. I have go…I have to talk to an old friend in the department. But if you like, stop by my office and we’ll see about the senior seminar.

Eva: Thank you, Dr…I, I wondered actually…if you might be able to meet me later tonight? For dinner or something… I just have so many questions I’d like to ask you about your last book. I just loved your treatise on the mind-body problem.

Tombe: (Smiling) Eva, dead men write treatises. Living ones write papers.

(She smiles, he hesitates, both intrigued and uncomfortable)

I have a function to go to tonight at the alumni club, but after that…I suppose I can meet you at that coffee shop across from the library. Say, nine o’clock?

Eva: That sounds fantastic! I’ll see you then Dr. Tombe.

(She exits stage left. He exits stage right. Lights fade)




SCENE III

Later that day—Another office. Stage lights to reveal an office similar to Tombe’s. However, the bookshelves are more neatly organized, the desk is clear except for a pen and legal pad, and in place of the bust of Socrates etc. are other bits of decoration. Seated at the desk is Saul Kripke, a small, solid man with balding gray hair and beard.

(There is a knock)

Kripke: Yes?

(Tombe enters)

Kripke: Adam! Come in, come in. I wondered how long I’d have to stay in town and wait for you to drop in on me.

(Kripke turns and reclines in his chair. Tombe takes a seat in front of the desk and to one side, so that the two are basically in profile to the audience).

Tombe: Yeah, I’m sorry, Saul. It’s been kind of a rough week.

Kripke: (Lightly) Rough how, Adam? Are your awards cluttering up your mantle? Are you having trouble keeping your grant money straight?

Tombe manages a polite smile, but it quickly fades.

Kripke: But seriously, what is it? It’s that doctoral candidate you’ve taken on isn’t it? The new boy wonder, what’s his name?

Tombe: David

Kripke: Yes, David. It’s him, isn’t it? You’ve realized he exceeds you in intelligence and it’s sent you into a deep depression.

Tombe: No, I’ve never thought David was lacking in genius. But he could use more focus. He’s more concerned with what’s socially remedial or psychological healthy than what is consistent, what is true, what is valid.

Kripke: Yes. While you want to be God, David’s perfectly content with being Christ.

(Both men laugh briefly. Tombe’s smile again fades and he sighs)

Tombe: (after a pause) Saul…logic is sound, isn’t it?

Kripke: Whose logic, Adam? Mine? I’m an old man; my logic gets less sound with each passing day.

Tombe: (Another polite smile) No, I mean…are the Frenchmen right? Are we just sitting in our ivory towers playing truth games?

Kripke: Adam, if it’s reassurance you want, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong decade. You know as well as I do that there is a new assault on human reason every day of the week—its limits, its mistakes, its delusions and deceptions, on and on. Heck, if you want to read about the trouble with axiomatic systems, I suggest you dust off your own dissertation. But the basics—if p then q, causality, proof—I’d like to think we have a pretty good handle on them.

Tombe: Yeah…yeah, I suppose you’re right.

Kripke: I’ll tell you what, Adam. We’ll round up a young postmodernist from the department, go get a cup of coffee, and have a nice dialectic on the whole thing. How’s that sound?

Tombe: (Rubbing eyes) Coffee sounds good, but what I’d really like is a cigarette.

Kripke: Shameful. You haven’t smoked in years, why start again now?

Tombe: Oh, something I’m working on. I’m testing a proof, and I know there’s a formal flaw, but I just can’t spot it. Cigarettes used to help me think.

Kripke: Well, by some trick of the cosmos, you are in luck. I happen to have a pack.
(Produces pack of cigarettes from desk drawer)

Tombe: (Surprised) What are you doing with a pack of cigarettes, Saul? You’ve never smoked…

Kripke: (Suddenly bewildered). I…I don’t really know actually. I was filling the car up this morning and…it just…occurred to me that I should buy it…strange now that I think about it...

(Tombe stands, accepts the pack, and starts for the door)

Tombe: Thanks for the cigarettes, but I’ll have to take a rain check on the coffee. I’m going to try and have another look at this proof before the banquet tonight.

Kripke. Well, you’ve aroused my curiosity. Care to tell me what it is you’re working on?

Tombe: …Not yet. If I’m wrong it would be embarrassing, and if I’m right well…well, I’m not sure I want to be right.

Kripke: (Jokingly) What have you done, Adam? Disproved the existence of God?

Tombe: Oh, no. No…this is much bigger than God…I’ll see you at the banquet, Saul.

(Tombe exits, lights fade)


SCENE IV

Later that day—a park. At stage center there is a small tree. Beneath it there is a chess table with two chairs. Martin is sitting in one of the chairs, arranging pieces on the board. He wears a mix of tattered garb from various eras, including but not limited to: a black bowler cap and black cut-off gloves, a white cravat, a silver waistcoat, knickerbockers and black buckled shoes etc. In the background we hear birds chirping and the occasional sound of children at play. Tombe enters stage right, studying a wrinkled piece of paper intently.

Tombe: (to himself). It’s right…Damn it all, it’s right and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

Martin: (Noticing Tombe) Perfect timing, my good doctor. I’ve just set up the board.

(Tombe sits opposite Martin and immediately moves a piece on the board)

Tombe: How are things, Martin?

Martin: Oh, fine, fine. That new flight of sparrows had a mighty hunger this morn. But fear not, I had bread and seed for one and all.

(After a brief examination of the board, Martin moves one of his pieces. The game continues at a quick but casual pace throughout the conversation)

Martin: And how about you, good doctor? What works of unmitigated brilliance are hatching in your laboratories of late?

Tombe: Does it matter, really? They’re all just ideas, right? —Abstracts on ink and paper. You do more for the world by feeding those birds every day than I’ve ever done.

Martin: A heresy, my good doctor! A heresy! We both would do well not to forget the awesome power of ideas, lest we fall prey to their baser desires.

Tombe: I don’t know…Sometimes I think that the history of the world is just the history of men with pointy things, and that the ideas come after the fact.

Martin: Then perhaps you aren’t as wise as I once suspected. For surely a learned individual would know it is the man who exerts his will on the ‘pointy thing’ and not vice versa. And what a curious being, man, in that his will must be fed by ideas as surely as his belly is fed by bread and wine.

Tombe: So you hold that ideas are devices of the will?

Martin: A Fortiori, my good doctor. Idea is the will. And will is the idea.

Tombe: (Wryly) you’re sounding more and more like a philosopher every day.

Martin: Ah, yes, the philosopher! The thought peddler! The idea tycoon! The willer of the starving masses! For if the wills are to have their bread, there must be a baker! And if the wills are to drink their wine, there must be an orchard!

Tombe: Now you speak in metaphors?

Martin: It takes no metaphor to say of history that people would sooner let their bellies starve than their wills!
Tombe: Maybe once I would have agreed with you without question, Martin. But now I’m not so sure. A lot of people in my profession would say that the will is of the mind, and that the mind is just one small contingency of the physical brain, the organic matter, the ten-to-the-eleventh neurons. And if that’s the case—if the body is prior to the mind—then all of our pretty ideas, all of our theoretical pretensions about the world, will always be accidents of our instincts, of evolution.

Martin: Evolution! What a delectable idea it was that Mr. Darwin had. And how very palatable to so many wills, natural and social, sweet and savory! Yes, he was quite the intellectual entrepreneur. Rivaled only by Herr Marx and Herr Hitler as an arbiter of conceptual consumption!

Tombe: Martin, I admit that it has been years since science and philosophy have purported to deal in irrefutable, absolute, objective facts. But certainly you have to grant that evolution is more than just a convenient ideological tool of the will.

Martin: I’ll grant you more than that, my good doctor. For surely I wouldn’t deign question the wisdom of the right, honorable Mr. Darwin! No, by all accounts, the Descent of Man stands as an unassailable, incontrovertible and supreme Truth! But I ask you this, my friend and pedagogue: does the scrumptiousness of evolution—as you say, its ‘ideological convenience’—suffer from its own veracity? I submit to you that it does not. Nor more than Nazism’s patent falsity stole from its bittersweet pungency to so many German wills. No, good doctor, an idea’s truthfulness and its tastiness are incidental at best, and mutually exclusive at worst.

Tombe: If you’re right…is there any way to avoid those false but appealing ideas?

Martin: Unwholesome ideas? Fattening ideas? Poisonous ideas?

Tombe: Yes.

Martin: Once the will has tasted something it likes, regardless of its dietary value, it rarely ceases consuming until it has had its fill. Thus it is up to men such as yourself, the bakers as it were, to hold your recipes secret should you find them malnourishing.

(With this, Martin makes a forceful move on the chessboard, which he seems proud of)

Tombe: Don’t get your hopes up, Martin. You can stick with your Sicilian Defense, but I won’t fall for your Poison Pawn…. You’ve left too many gaps to cover and soon I’ll make a gambit you won’t counter. Checkmate is sixteen moves away. I can see it as clearly as if I were playing both sides of the board.

Martin: (Tipping his King over on the board) Well, my good doctor. It seems the day is yours.

(Lights fade).




SCENE V

Early Evening—Tombe’s Office. Tombe is standing in front of his desk, wearing black suit pants, shined black shoes, and a white tuxedo shirt. As the scene progresses, he tucks in his shirt, fastens his cuff links, and ties his bowtie.

Tombe: I’ll just sit it out a while, that’s all. I’ll study it, pick it apart, and subject it to every test of consistency I can think of. Then I’ll tweak it, reformulate it, polish it…Maybe I’ll send an abstract to a few folks in the department, and a few at NYU or Rutgers…Ned maybe, and Jerry…good people, smart people. If I’ve missed something, they’ll spot it. Then…when it’s ready, if its ready, I’ll publish it. It’s an idea, that’s all. And maybe it’s a powerful idea. Maybe it’s revolutionary. Maybe it will change the world, the universe. But right now it’s still my idea. And I can decide whether the universe is ready for it.

(There is a knock)

Tombe: Come in.

(David enters through the door stage left. He is wearing a collared t-shirt and khakis.)

Tombe: David. Where’s your tux? The banquet’s in less than an hour.

David: I’m not going to the banquet.

Tombe: David. I don’t want to go either. These things are utterly pointless, I know. But there are going to be trustees there. It could mean grant money for you.

David: No, you don’t understand—

Tombe: It’s work, isn’t it? The Kant lectures. 18th Century German is a little dense. Just put that part of your dissertation off, I’ll see if I can arrange a refresher course with someone here in the German department, then—

David: I’m withdrawing from the program, doctor.

Tombe: What??

David: I’m leaving the university.

Tombe: Why??? Where—when did this happen?

David: It’s been building up for a long time now.

Tombe: David…you’re one of the brightest pre-doc philosopher in the country, and besides that, you’re a friend and a colleague. Think about what you’re saying. What about all your talk of bringing ethics beyond postmodernism, redrawing the boundaries of reason? What about all of that?

David: If there’s one thing that seven years of philosophy has taught me, it’s that the boundaries of reason are immutable and unforgiving. Reason doesn’t work, doctor. It was arrogance to ever think that it did. Mankind can do better than reason, move past it…But I don’t think that philosophy can. You know that I think you do remarkable work, honorable work. But it’s so far removed from the real…I started out interested in politics, doctor. And when I got curious about the forces at work within politics, I read history and political science. And when I wanted still more fundamental principles, I read sociology and psychology. And then I turned to philosophy, and I thought it would finally deliver the tools of a perfected knowledge, all the promises of the Enlightenment. It took me seven years to realize that it can’t possibly do that. Philosophy is too bound by its own narrow commitments. There is nothing Meta about metaphysics… I know now that the answer to the problems of the world isn’t to climb farther up the ladder of abstraction…It’s to climb down and get your hands dirty.

Tombe: David…for God’s sake, doubting, questioning, searching, these are what make philosophy what it is. My freshman logic students could tell you that. All of these objections to reason, these post-whatever discourses, they’re in vogue now, it’s true. And I know that at some levels, they are valid and they make sense. But that can’t be the end, David. It’s a dialectic, it’s a pendulum.

David: Maybe, doctor. I hope you’re right. But my time is too short and my resources are too finite to wait around for one intellectual fad to replace another. I’m going to go somewhere, do something meaningful. The UN, the Peace Corps. I don’t know. Something. Anyway, I just came to thank you, and to say goodbye.

(He turns to leave. Tombe takes some pieces of paper from his desk.)

Tombe: Wait, David. Just do me one favor…(uncertainly) These are, these are some working notes for a theorem I’ve been toying with. Take them back to your apartment, read them over. Check them for flaws. If you still think reason is finite once you’ve read that…then I wish you Godspeed with whatever you decide to do.

(David reluctantly takes the papers and leaves. Lights fade.)




SCENE VI

Later that evening—a dimly lit banquet hall. Classical music is playing softly and there is the low murmur of background conversation. Kripke and Rebecca Swanson stand together at stage center, both dressed formally, holding champagne glasses and exchanging pleasantries. Tombe enters stage right and approaches.

Kripke: Ah, wonderful. This is the gentlemen I mentioned to you—Dr. Adam Tombe, soon to be chair of the philosophy department, meet Mrs. Rebecca Swanson, soon to be chair of the Board of Trustees.

Tombe: It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.

Swanson: And you, doctor. Saul has talked about you endlessly.

Kripke: I was just telling Mrs. Swanson that you were the youngest person to win the Schock Prize in Philosophy and Logic. (To Swanson) His extensions of Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and the Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle have created quite a buzz in the field.

Swanson: You don’t have to convince me of the man’s qualifications, Saul. We hired him, didn’t we? Besides, I do know a thing or two about the subject. (To Tombe) I’ve read that your theories have been used to formally show that God’s existence can’t be determined one way or another.

Tombe: That is one of the more interesting applications I have seen, yes.

Swanson: I’ve also read that they’ve been rejected by Theists and Atheists alike.

Tombe: Sort of proves the point, doesn’t it?

Swanson: (laughs haughtily)…Tombe, that’s an interesting name. French, isn’t it?

Tombe: The name is. But through the vagaries of conquest, emigration, and marriage, I am not.

Swanson: If I remember my French from finishing school, tombé means ‘fallen’.

Kripke: That’s right.

Swanson: So that would make your Adam Fallen. How…fateful.

Tombe: I suppose so.

(Awkward silence. Sensing this, Kripke chimes in)

Kripke: Could I get either of you a drink?

Swanson: I’m fine thank you.

Tombe: I’ll have Bourbon with a twist of lemon, if you don’t mind.

(The very moment Kripke leaves, a waiter appears with a drink and an envelope)

Waiter: Here you are, sir: Bourbon with lemon. And this is also for you.

(Tombe accepts both, looking perplexed. Just then there is the sound of a phone ringing)

Swanson: Pardon me gentlemen, technology calls.

(Swanson produces a cell phone and begins a muted conversation. Slowly, a look of shock comes to her face. Meanwhile, Tombe opens the letter and reads the contents aloud to himself.)

Tombe: “Doctor—I can find no fault in your proof. Goodbye.”

(Putting away her phone, Swanson turns to Tombe with a look of shock and concern.)

Swanson: If you’ll excuse me, Dr. Tombe…it seems that someone has jumped from the chapel tower.

(Lights fade)



SCENE VI

Early next morning—Tombe’s office. Tombe sits at his desk, still wearing his tuxedo, though the bowtie is undone, the shirt only half tucked, and the cufflinks unfastened. He has a dazed, sad look on his face.

Tombe: I was disappointed in David for not having enough faith in reason…but he had enough faith to see what the Proof really meant, to see what it might…would lead to. And seeing that, knowing that…he took his own life…his own life which was worth mine a dozen times over… poor, poor wise old David…Last night I wanted nothing more than to do the absolute irrational act of curling into a ball and weeping like a baby. When I remembered the girl…Eva…I found myself wishing for an instant that she’d drop off the face of the earth so I wouldn’t have to deal with another human being… I went to the Registrar’s office this morning and ask for the contact information of an senior named Eva Rippen. I wanted to call and apologize for missing our meeting. The young man at the desk informed me that there wasn’t anyone of that name registered at Princeton University, and that the only other student named Eva was an art major studying in Paris for the semester…I went to the coffee shop where I was supposed to meet her, and the owner told me that he didn’t recall anybody of such and such a description coming in the night before…And then it all made sense, in a nonsensical way…The cigarettes, the chess game, the bourbon with lemon…and the girl who was Eva Rippen…

(He stands and looks at the bust of Socrates)

Tombe: Socrates was famous for saying “I know that I don’t know”…but I’m not even sure of that anymore. The only thing I know is the proof…what it can do…and the one thing it can’t…

Tombe: I find myself hoping, maybe praying, that the postmodernists and the ancients have got it right. That the human subject is fragmented and crippled, and that reality is beyond our feeble faculties…that we’re nothing but cuckoo birds popping out and chirping when the gears click into place, and ever after slinking back into the dark ignorance from whence we came.

(He picks up a wrinkled piece of paper from his desk and studies it once again)

Tombe: I had a moment of doubt, like David did, when I was just starting my doctorate at Oxford. I thought about the preposterousness of any field that aimed at figuring out first causes, at figuring out the nature of the self and of the universe. Because none of it is necessary to eat, sleep, seek shelter from the elements, and avoid predators. This idea of “self-consciousness” is nothing but an evolutionary surplus. Philosophy itself is nothing but an artifact of being on the top of the food chain for too long. What an arrogance it is to assume that existence hinges on puny human thoughts…that man is master of reality…They talked about great MINDS, biologists, physicists, economists, mathematicians…all the brilliance in the contents of their MINDS…inscribed on wood pulp and shelved all over the world. Millions and billions and trillions and quadrillions of pieces of MIND…They never stopped to think that BRAIN is prior to mind. Mind is brain’s masturbation. Mind is the leftovers, the flab over the muscle of instinct…The body…the MEAT of man…would exist whether or not its synapses couple in such a way that its lungs and larynx and tongue can manufacture a doubt.

(Pause)

Tombe: I’d like that, actually. If that were true, then maybe I could relax, quit my job, burn my books and live on an island somewhere. But here I am. Cogito ergo sum. And if it weren’t for me, for this MIND…then David would still be alive and Eva Rippen would still BE…

(Pause)

So all that is left is this (Holds up paper)…Seven simple propositions…Seven steps to oblivion. And it is inevitable.

(Tombe exits through the door to stage center, the same lecture hall as the previous day. He walks toward the lecturn, picks up a piece of chalk and turns to the class)

Tombe: We’ll be working on something new today…a proof…(turns and begins writing on the board)…Let us assume that through reason…

(Voice quiets as lights fade)