Image result for greendale mo imagesA house like mine on the street I grew up on


My earliest memories are vivid and illicit nostalgia: the aroma of baked goods from my mother’s kitchen, a large cottonwood tree in our backyard, the smell of burning leaves in the fall, the glow of a real fireplace in our living room, sledding down the hills at the golf course up the street in the winter, and spring … when one could play baseball again. Was life ever better than when playing baseball, or sandlot football in the rain, snow, mud, and freezing cold? I don’t think so.

My parents loved me unconditionally—how indebted I am to them. My mother died on September 18, 2005, at the age of 86. She is no longer the beauty that stole my father’s heart in the 1930s; no longer the wife who waited through world war II for her husband to return; no longer middle age—but she was my first love, she was my father’s only love, and she was beloved by all her children.

My father died in 1989 at the age of 71, but not before he talked with me about politics, religion, history, sports and more. He labored physically for more than 50 years so that his family could have more than he did in his depression-era youth. My parents may not have received the wages due them—not many parents do—but they each did their best. My mother was comfort, consolation, and tenderness; my father was strength, guidance, and toughness. Both resonate within me still.

GRADE & HIGH SCHOOL (1961-1973)

Ralph HedleyThe Tournament, 1898

I grew up in Greendale, Missouri, a middle-class suburb of St. Louis in the midst of the baby boom. There were plenty of kids to play with and I grew up “with a ball in my hands,” as a childhood friend later said. We played outside every day—baseball, soccer, and football mostly—since there wasn’t much to do inside back then. Our grade school soccer team won multiple city championships, and some of my soccer teammates went on to play college and professional soccer. (Needless to say, I was not among them.) Our baseball team was less successful, mostly because I was a pitcher who threw every ball right down the middle—with little or no velocity. As for football, I was “all-sandlot,” at least until we neared puberty when I found out I was too little for football. By high school, my sport of choice had changed to table tennis. I was lucky enough to play a number of the top-ranked players in the world, but I was beaten soundly by all of them.

 A picture of my high school, long since torn down

The private high school I attended marked the beginning of my academic life. There I encountered the New England Transcendentalists—Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman—the first philosophers I had ever read. They taught me, among other things, that the search for truth would be unsettling. But it was the summer before college that marked the true beginning of my intellectual voyage. A good friend was a philosophy major and discussions with him awoken me, as Kant said of encountering Hume, from my dogmatic slumber. I now realized that there was a world of ideas to explore. It was as if a dam had broken, exposing the parochialism of my youthful religious indoctrination. I was determined to explore this mindscape and die with as large a mind as possible.


University of Missouri seal.svg The University of Missouri – “The Welfare of the People”

During my first semester of college, I eagerly enrolled in a class called, “Major Questions in Philosophy.” There I was introduced to Descartes’ epistemological skepticism, Hume’s critique of religion, and Lenin’s critique of the state. Wow! Knowledge, the gods, and the state all undermined in 16 weeks. I am not sure why I was open to new ideas, whereas so many cling to the first ideas they are exposed to, but I was hooked. Subsequently, I took the maximum number of philosophy courses possible; learning about Medieval, American, Modern, and Asian philosophy, and a bit of philosophy of religion, science, mind, and law from instructors like Edward Costello, Peter Fuss, Paul Gomberg, and David Griesedeck. In the meantime, I discovered women, and later, high stakes poker.


Downtown Las Vegas many years ago

I headed off to Las Vegas with my poker winnings in 1979 and made a meager living playing poker over the next few years. On returning to St. Louis, I wooed my soon-to-be wife with the hundred dollar bills I carried around in case a game surfaced. She was quite impressed, although less so when she found out that that was all the money I had. (And that only 1 of the 4 doors on my dilapidated car opened!) But she married me in 1980, and during the next few years, we welcomed two beautiful children. We struggled financially during these years, as my poker income was inconsistent. By 1985 we had moved to Las Vegas where I dealt blackjack. However, the desert wasn’t to our liking and we moved back to St. Louis where I started graduate school in 1986. I wanted to go to Washington University but, unfortunately, couldn’t make their deadline. So I accepted a graduate fellowship to St. Louis University, planning to switch schools—for a number of reasons, I never did switch.


Dubourg Hall, St. Louis University

This is when I really became a good student. I helped raise my children, studied hard, taught my own classes, and made some good friends. I learned much, both from my fellow graduate students—especially Darrell Arnold and John Ries—and from my professors—most notably Richard J. Blackwell and William C. Charron. (For more on their influence on me see my “academic genealogy.”) I’ve always had mixed feelings about attending St. Louis University, which often leads people to mistakenly assume that I’m religious. The idea of attending a Catholic university sent shivers down my spine before I started, and haunts me to this day. Yet, I received an excellent education there for which I am immensely grateful.

The other significant event was the addition of a new daughter in 1988. Like all our children, she has provided much joy.


My first full-time job was at Ursuline College in Ohio—big mistake—both Ohio and the college. I rose to become chair of the philosophy department and had an office that overlooked the campus lake, yet I wanted out of Cleveland. Still, I had some good students there, many of whom I recall fondly to this day. (Especially Darcie Amirault, Wendy Whidden, Michelle Fegatelli, Judy Anthes, Donna Owen, Mary Bartell, Nancy Poling, and Meredith von Saucken.)

In 2000 I accepted a position as a lecturer at the University of Texas at Austin, where I taught in both the philosophy and computer science departments. I enjoyed teaching at this flagship university, and was always inspired walking through the quad whose main building features this inscription: “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.”

University of Texas at Austin seal.svg
A cultivated mind is the guardian genius of democracy

We left Austin in 2009 to follow our grown children to the Northwest—it was lonely in Texas without them. Since then I have taught part-time at a few different institutions, but now spend most of my time doing my own writing and research. I have left teaching behind, with no desire to return. As the lyrics of an old Cat Stevens song say: “I’m not making love to anyone’s wishes, only for that light I see, Cause when I’m dead and lowered low in my grave, that’s gonna be the only thing that’s left of me.”

My wife Jane has been the only woman I have ever loved, and we have been married for more than 30 years. (Update 2020. Now over 40 years.) She is an extraordinary woman in every respect; intelligent, thoughtful, introspective, disciplined, conscientious, and, at the same time, possesses a heart full of warmth, compassion, and love. She is too good for this world. For Jane, the most appropriate words are not my own, but the Bard’s:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

As I look back over my life in search of its purpose, my sentiments are best echoed by the prose from the Prologue to Bertrand Russell’s autobiography. It is so beautiful that I long ago learned to recite it verbatim. (Which I still can do.)

Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course, over a great ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.

I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy—ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneliness—that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what—at last—I have found.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.

Love and knowledge, so far as they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneliness, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what
human life should be. I long to alleviate this evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.

This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.

19 thoughts on “Biography

  1. What an interesting journey! Thanks for the Bertrand Russell quote at the end – beautiful. Regards.

  2. Don’t know if you were serious or joking about Ursuline but I can assure you that you were one of the bright spots of that experience for me. I can still remember you saying in class “things don’t just vanish? how about those socks that get lost in the wash?” Very funny. But Ursuline was a tough family time then with my wife ill and the school was a bad fit for me. At any rate glad to hear from you. How are you doing?

  3. Thank you for sharing your background. Understanding an author’s personal history greatly illuminates their writing and their thinking, I find. Like Aristotle taught us, to truly understand something , one must understand, among other things, how it came to be. (I am of course referring to the Efficient Cause, one of Aristotle’s famous Four Causes ). I believe this is equally true for ideas as it is for objects – for the ethereal as it is for the material.

    P.S. Is this a typo I found, which you may like to correct:

    “Yet I did had some good students there, many of whom I recall fondly to this day.”

    (under POST-DOCTORAL (1992-PRESENT))

  4. I recently stumbled upon a link to one of your articles on reddit. I have been binge reading all your other articles ever since! I was feeling lost and nothing made me feel motivated anymore. Your work inspires me to be become a better person. I am really glad i found your website. I think you are very amazing. Thanks for writing!

  5. you seem to have been lucky overall, and I am glad of this. It’s pretty rare to find married people whose respect for each other last through their lives. In the end, really the best thing in life is having found a few people who loved you. And yes, the Russell Prologue is stricking. What a coincidence that I had just mentioned this autobiography in my message, and then I see it mentioned here. I wish Russell would have done more of this toward the end of his autobio, instead of being so taken by what was happening around him. But then again, I cannot ever fault someone else’s autobio.

  6. and, wow, the first two paragraphs about your “illicit nostalgia” was pure gold. I myself am very fond of my childhood. They were magical and incredible times. For me it was the Christmases (never cared about religion either) and the TV box, because of the tunes and jingles I’d hear. And I have not owned a TV for + 30 years.

    “Childhood: a lost paradise!” -Schopenhauer

  7. I was very lucky. I had wonderful parents, have a wonderful wife, have wonderful children and grandchildren, received a wonderful education and more. (I wanted to see how many times I could write “wonderful.”)

    I’m with Russell, I would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.”

  8. John, fascinating and thank you.

    In this age of created personas where many about descriptions and bios give merely a list of where the author has worked, how refreshing it is to find a bio that actually says something about the person about whom it is written.

  9. I read your bio and some of your writing … but the piece I’d like to comment on is your little analysis of the quote from Sir Walter Scott’s poem in Groundhog Day. How you manage to conclude that those lines undoubtedly refer to Republicans is beyond me except for my conclusion that you must be a Democrat!

  10. I stumbled on your work by a simple Google search of the word ‘fallibilism.’ I have bookmarked it– though I have only skimmed through a few pages– as a treasure trove of philosophical writings for a course on Critical Thinking and Discussion that I am teaching.

    Thanks for sharing!

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