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A memory of The Great John Rawls
| The Most Beautiful Men | 05/08/25 |
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Date: May 8th, 2025 8:52 AM Author: The Most Beautiful Men It was an overcast afternoon at Harvard Yard, the kind where the clouds seem to hang just low enough to brush your thoughts. You had been wandering through the ivy-laced courtyards, thinking idly about justice, fairness, and whether the café nearby still sold that killer espresso. That’s when you saw him—John Rawls himself, somehow real and unmistakably tall, dressed in a slightly wrinkled suit that gave the impression of a philosopher too deep in thought to notice the tyranny of dry cleaning.
He was standing beneath an elm tree, thumbing through a worn copy of A Theory of Justice, as if revisiting his own arguments with the kind of mild irritation only geniuses are allowed.
You approached cautiously, half-convinced this was a dream or a Harvard-funded hallucination.
“Excuse me,” you said, unsure if one could just speak to John Rawls like that.
He looked up slowly, his eyes sharp, but kind. Then—oddly—his gaze traveled downward, then upward, then downward again. He took in your full height with theatrical wonder.
“My word,” Rawls murmured, stepping back as if your stature demanded philosophical distance. “You are… the supreme Nougat.”
You blinked. “I’m sorry?”
He nodded gravely, as though having arrived at a transcendental truth. “Yes. Nougat. You see, in the original position, behind the veil of ignorance, one would not know if one would be born short or tall, brittle or bold. But you—you would emerge regardless. An ideal blend of composition and surprise. Height and mystery. The supreme Nougat.”
You opened your mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “That’s… quite something.”
Rawls smiled faintly, as if knowing this moment would live in your soul like a line from scripture. “Remember this. When the world tries to treat you as just another variable in the basic structure, be the Nougat.”
He turned, his figure slowly dissolving into the fog like a philosopher-shaped myth, his book left open on the bench, a note tucked between the pages: “Justice as fairness. But you, as Nougat.”
You never forgot. And honestly, how could you? |