"I've wondered too," Phædrus had said, and in a puzzled voice had added, "I think maybe it's because every teacher tends to grade up students who resemble him the most. If your own writing shows neat penmanship you regard that more important in a student than if it doesn't. If you use big words you're going to like students who write with big words."

"Sure. What's wrong with that?" DeWeese had said.

"Well, there's something whacky here," Phædrus had said, "because the students I like the most, the ones I really feel a sense of identity with, are all failing!"

DeWeese had completely broken up with laughter at this and left Phædrus feeling miffed. He had seen it as a kind of scientific phenomenon that might offer clues leading to new understanding, and DeWeese had just laughed.

At first he thought DeWeese was just laughing at his unintended insult to himself. But that didn't fit because DeWeese wasn't a derogatory kind of person at all. Later he saw it was a kind of supertruth laugh. The best students always are flunking. Every good teacher knows that. It was a kind of laughter that destroys tensions produced by impossible situations and Phædrus could have used some of it because at this time he was taking things way too seriously.