“Throughout the whole absurd life I’d lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from somewhere deep in my future, across years that were still to come, and as it passed, this wind leveled whatever was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than the ones I was living. What did other people’s deaths or a mother’s love matter to me?” 

Albert Camus, The Stranger

Today I stumbled upon the news that Wolfgang Walter Fuchs has died. As much as this news shocked and saddened me, I simultaneously faced the shame and embarrassment attendant with the realization that Professor Fuchs had died 25 months ago. More than two years—it took more than two years for me to learn of the death of the man who, 23 years ago, turned me toward the path that would ultimately define my way of thinking of myself, my world, and the way in which the two would relate.

*****

You can’t make this up: I arrived at Towson State University in the fall of 1993 with a firm plan and a (far too) strong sense of who I was; with more that a semester’s worth of credits on my ledger before even stepping into a classroom, my intention was to get in and out as quickly and as painlessly as possible, and begin my career as a high school English teacher. In my first semester, hidden between advanced calculus and chemistry courses, and the first of many English courses, was a seemingly harmless lark called ‘Philosophy and Literature.’ How was I to know that this single course, taught by a man straight from central casting, would change everything for me? By the end of that first semester, I had added philosophy as a minor; by the end of my first year, English for secondary education had been supplanted by philosophy as my major. The rest, as they say…

Fuchs was the perfect kind of gateway philosophy professor, at least for me. At that point in my life, I wasn’t ready for the hard stuff—the Kants and Kierkegaards, the Husserls and Heideggers, the Wittgensteins and Derridas of the Western philosophical canon. Instead, Fuchs eased me in with dramatists and novelists whose prose poetry captivated me before I even properly learned to look beneath the images at the stout but subtle ideas just below the surface. As we would slowly but systematically scratch away at each work, so too were we given revealing glimpses at the depth of knowledge and philosophical insight that Fuchs was reserving for the right moments to share. After several classes of discussing the action of the Oresteia, hidden amongst questions about Agamemnon’s duty or the requirement of justice from Clytemnestra or Orestes, Fuchs would guide us toward an understanding of necessity, freedom, and responsibility. A simple, enchanting, lingering gesture from a woman named Agnes led us toward considerations of death and immortality. A seemingly thoughtless murder that could only be explained by oppressive heat and blinding sun compelled us toward an examination of the Absurd. Three insensitive and selfish people in a room brought us to an understanding of suffering and damnation, culminating in the realization that “hell is other people.” Before I realized what was happening, I found myself beset from all sides by weighty issues that I’d never before given sufficient thought; what was worse, very often the same texts that posed the question failed to provide sufficient tools to answer in a conclusive, satisfying way. A curtain had been drawn back and the scales had fallen away, but what was revealed wasn’t an actual Truth but was instead a dimness that pulled me further forward. Thus, another impressionable kid was won over to philosophical pursuit.

What this first engagement with philosophy through literature taught me—besides the actual philosophical concepts and paradigms that would reverberate throughout every academic endeavor I have pursued since—was that a certain precision, clarity, and beauty could all be successfully brought to bear on any philosophical concept. Ask anyone who has read both Being and Nothingness and the novels comprised in the Roads to Freedom series which is a more compelling, informative, and moving examination of bad faith or the paradoxical harmony of radical freedom and responsibility; while the merits of the former are undeniable, I’ll take The Age of Reason or The Reprieve every time. And although this preliminary experience may have spoiled me against some of the more systematic works of Kant or Hegel, I found myself in a far better position to fully appreciate, to love, thinkers who could write beautifully: Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Camus, Weil; philosophers who thought with passion and who wrote with love. In the end, what I realize is that Professor Fuchs led me, and countless others I’m sure, to philosophy in the most appropriate sense possible—as a love of wisdom; for my love of philosophy, I have Walt Fuchs to thank.

This fact should surprise no one who ever met the man, either in his office, in his classroom, or prowling the corridors of old Linthicum Hall. The man oozed philosophy—gray hair and beard, black jeans and boots, and his now-iconic black leather vest. (While I only took five or six classes with Professor Fuchs, every semester brought me regularly into the department; which is to say, I’m sure there was never a week that I spent on campus when I didn’t encounter Fuchs at least once or twice. Over my four years at Towson, I saw Fuchs without his vest exactly one time. Suffice it to say, it was an odd, unsettling sight.) Unflappable, witty, always extremely calm; Fuchs was the epitome of the learned professor who was extremely comfortable with his knowledge and with his place at the university. Yet these characteristics only tell a small part of the tale. He was not only extremely intelligent, he was accessible; not only an excellent teacher, he was also genuinely friendly and kind. When he wasn’t crystallizing difficult concepts, he was listening to his students. I can’t quantify just how much I learned from him in the classroom, but I also learned so much just sitting in his office, discussing my work or smoking cigarettes and talking about what seemed to be nothing.

*****

Here is what I regret: as an undergraduate student, I never had the self-confidence to take better advantage of his presence. I didn’t say nearly as much as I should have in class, nor did I engage him nearly enough outside of class. After graduation I saw him only occasionally, and then not at all in the current millennium. When I started my graduate studies I did not consult him; as I completed my doctorate I didn’t look to him for guidance or inspiration. Finally, several months after defending my dissertation, I sent him a copy; less than a month after that, I received a reply that accurately cited facts from our time together nearly twenty years before, and even included an article he’d found that he thought I’d enjoy; for some inexplicable reason, Professor Fuchs had remembered me. Yet even after this incredibly impressive, touching correspondence, we never did speak or write again. 

Here is what I am left with: my love for philosophy has only grown, expanding into new territories of understanding, seeking more outlets for its expression. To this day, when I teach Kierkegaard or Camus I find myself overcome with a passion and enthusiasm that surely has its origin in Philosophy and Literature, with Professor Wolfgang Walter Fuchs, in the fall semester of 1993. When I am asked why I chose to study philosophy, or what the role or purpose of philosophy is in human life, I have to begin with what I learned from Professor Fuchs. When I philosophize—when I teach, when I discuss, when I read, when I write—I am merely repeating a process that I learned from him. And when I get closest to determining who I am and how I understand the world philosophically, I know that I am still just as informed and inspired by my philosophical mentor.

My first graded assignment for Professor Fuchs was a short paper on the Absurd, based on Albert Camus’ novel The Stranger; it was not a success. When I sent a copy of my doctoral dissertation to Fuchs, significant portions of which center around Camus’ work, I reminded him of that fact and expressed my hope that this latest effort was at least somewhat better than my first effort (I included this same sentiment in the Acknowledgments of my first published book). This, ultimately, is that for which I am most grateful—from Professor Fuchs I learned that you don't always get the full answer with your first attempt (and sometimes you actually wind up with a rather poor answer), but that you can very often continue to engage the question toward more satisfying results; and in any case, there are some questions that are just worth living with until the end, because the constant engagement with these questions will continue to define you and your place in the world. Without going too much against the quote from Camus’ Meursault above, this is what another person’s death can mean, at least for me—Professor Fuchs lived his life and died his death as a philosopher, a lover of wisdom; taught by him and inspired by him, I continue to live my own life, and I intend to die my own death, in the same way.