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Love is a Fallacy
by Max Shulman
Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—
I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a
chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I only
eighteen.
It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for
example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university. Same age, same
background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but
nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a
faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in
every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just
because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness
. Not, however, to Petey.
One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such
distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t
move,” I said, “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll get a doctor.”
“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.
“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.
“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.
I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. “Why do you want
a raccoon coat?”
“I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have
known they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent
all my money for textbooks, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”
“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing
raccoon coats again?”
“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”
“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on
Campus.
He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to have a raccoon
coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”
“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed
. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the thing to
do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”
“No,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat.
Anything!”
My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I
asked, looking at him narrowly.
“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my
hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it
lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had
something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first
rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this
young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who
excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I
wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.
I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I
was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a
lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without
exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one
omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.
Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that
time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.
Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of
carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of
breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy
Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained
scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—
without even getting her fingers moist.
Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But
I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was
worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart
than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”
“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you’d
call it love. Why?”
“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean
are you going steady or anything like that?”
“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”
“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular
fondness?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture
, the field would be open. Is that right?”
“I guess so. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing , nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out the
closet.
“Where are you going?” asked Petey.
“Home for weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.
“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you
couldn’t get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so
I can buy a raccoon coat?”
“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my
bag and left.
“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the
suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn
in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.
“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the
raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or
twenty times.
“Would you like it?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look
came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”
“Your girl.” I said, mincing no words.
“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”
“That’s right.”
He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he said stoutly.
I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your
business.”
I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of
my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the
coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery window. Then he turned away
and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more
longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much resolution
this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution
waning. Finally he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with
mad lust at the coat.
“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or
going steady or anything like that.”
“That’s right,” I murmured.
“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”
“Not a thing,” said I.
“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”
“Try on the coat,” said I.
He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way
down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,
” he said happily.
I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.
He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature
of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her
mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner. “Gee, that
was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her
to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left the theatre
. And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she
bade me good night.
I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the
size of my task. This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would
it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be
taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at
first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking
about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and
the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.
I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in
logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic
myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips. “Poll’,” I said to her
when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the
Knoll and talk.”
“Oo, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would
go far to find another so agreeable.
We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an
old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about
?” she asked.
“Logic.”
She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she
said.
“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before
we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common
fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”
“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.
I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called
Dicto Simpliciter.”
“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.
“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization
. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”
“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it
builds the body and everything.”
“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is
an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease,
exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to
exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is
usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have
committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”
“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”
“It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when
she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty
Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. Petey Bellows can
’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of
Minnesota can speak French.”
“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”
I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is
reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a
conclusion.”
“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than
dancing even.”
I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl,
absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. “
Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take Bill on our picnic.
Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”
“I know somebody just like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula
Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a
picnic—”
“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the
rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if
you blame Eula Becker.”
“I’ll never do it again,” she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”
I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”
“Then tell me some more fallacies.”
“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”
“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.
I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises
able to lift it?”
“Of course,” she replied promptly.
“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the
stone.”
“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.
She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.
“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict
each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force,
there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can
be no irresistible force. Get it?”
“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.
I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you
home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have
another session tomorrow night.”
I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had
had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay
snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at
his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could
have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure.
The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening; I might as well waste
another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few
members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flame.
Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it
one more try.
Seated under the oak the next evening I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is
called Ad Misericordiam.”
She quivered with delight.
“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks
him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six
children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing
to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the
house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming.”
A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,
” she sobbed.
“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never
answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed
to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do
you understand?”
“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.
I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped
her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will
discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to
look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays
to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during
a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a
house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks
during an examination?”
“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve
heard in years.”
“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers,
and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but
students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can’t make
an analogy between them.”
“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.
“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. “Next we’ll try Hypothesis
Contrary to Fact.”
“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.
“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in
a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about
radium.”
“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head “Did you see the movie? Oh, it
just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures
me.”
“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would
like to point out that statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have
discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have
discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t
start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable
conclusions from it.”
“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I
hardly ever see him any more.”
One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what
flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”
“How cute!” she gurgled.
“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent
is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ .
.. Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What’s wrong?”
I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly
a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’
s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance
has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even
begins talking?”
“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair.
The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He
has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start ... Polly, I’m proud
of you.”
“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.
“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is
concentrate. Think—examine—evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we
have learned.”
“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a
long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I
cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without letup. It
was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was work, sweat, and
darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would.
But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was
rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun
came pouring in and all was bright.
Five grueling nights with this took, but it was worth it. I had made a
logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was
worthy of me, at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my
many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.
It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the
contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I
loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next
meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to
romantic.
“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not
discuss fallacies.”
“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.
“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five
evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are
well matched.”
“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.
“I beg your pardon,” said I.
“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well
matched on the basis of only five dates?”
I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My
dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is
plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a whole cake to know that it’s
good.”
“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”
I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her
lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best
approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a
moment while my massive brain chose the proper word. Then I began:
“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, the moon and the stars
and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will
go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will
languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a
shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”
There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.
“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.
I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster
had me by the throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging
through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.
“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your
fallacies.”
“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.
“And who taught them to you, Polly?”
“You did.”
“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn
’t come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”
“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.
I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t
take all these things so literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You
know that the things you learn in school don’t have anything to do with
life.”
“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.
That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will
you not go steady with me?”
“I will not,” she replied.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady
with him.”
I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he
made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up
great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a
cheat. He’s a rat.”
“Poisoning the Well ,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting
must be a fallacy too.”
With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said.
“You’re a logician. Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you
choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous
intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knothead, a
jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can
you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”
“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.” |
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