“I, like most men, enjoy learning of greater men than myself.”  He was standing at the front of the auditorium, hundreds of faces staring at him from the floor.  The small dais was resting on a conference table.  There was a small microphone, a glass of water, and his prepared notes: three index cards with the word “notes” written on each.

“That was my motivation.  I was lured into academia to learn about the people who built civilization by acts of sheer will.  People doing stuff because they could.  Thomas Jefferson built this country because he thought it would be fun.  Ben Franklin, as a hobby.  The most popular response mountaineers give when asked why they climb the tallest peak in the world?  Because it’s there.  For some people, the men and women of the world, the very nations they make up, the very earth they tread on every day, is their Everest.”

Every face was rapt, every eye on him.  He held their attention like a magician diverting eyes from the rabbit being slipped into the hat.  Presto.

“The book I wrote was a labor of love, true, but it was also an act of responsibility.  The story needed to be told.  The most historically significant event of our generation, and it was being glossed over by most mainstream historians.  It took years, and those years were grueling, but I felt it necessary, and I loved every minute of it.”

There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause.  Just the slightest little bit.  A boiling over of enthusiasm.

“There is little else to say.  I am glad you are interested in my work.  But it’s not my work.  I chronicle others’ work.  You have their work in your hands.  But if you like, I will autograph it before you go.  Thank you for your time.”

The applause and cheering was tempered by people clamoring to get in line to have their tomes autographed by the author. A few hours later, and a few dozen pens, he walked to his car, in the dark, and drove home.  He observed the traffic on the way,  but was powerless to affect it.