forcefully better it in places. A month of lecturing, reading, and sleeping. I became somewhat knowledgeable about his field, courtesy of his own reading. I also became somewhat knowledgeable about how boring a single life can be if lived without extravagances. One day Berkhamsted was staring out the window of his empty lecture theatre, idly thinking. Consciousness is a pattern, he mused. An ocean of sorts. My interest was piqued. Yes, I said to him softly — so softly he thought it his own mind. And if so? Consciousness is a pattern. An ocean of sorts….he mused. Yes, yes, yes, I said. And if
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