The Practice: Chapter One

 

⁰CHAPTER 1 — The Lecture (FINAL POLISH)

Manning stood at the front of the lecture hall, marker in hand, and wrote on the whiteboard:

**AKRASIA**

*Greek: ἀκρασία*

*"Weakness of will"*

*Acting against one's better judgment*

He turned to face eighty-seven students. Tuesday morning, 10:00 A.M., Ethics 301.

"Aristotle says this is possible. Socrates says it isn't. Who's right?"

Silence.

Manning waited. Let the silence build. A hand went up.

"Yes, Melissa."

"Socrates thinks if you know what's good, you'll do it. So if someone does something bad, they must not know it's bad."

"Right. And Aristotle?"

A boy in the back: "Aristotle says people can know what's right and still choose wrong. Because knowing isn't the same as doing."

"Exactly." Manning wrote on the board:

**SOCRATES: Knowledge → Action (automatic)**

**ARISTOTLE: Knowledge ≠ Action (requires character)**

He circled the second line.

"Aristotle is right. You can know something and fail to act on it. You can know smoking causes cancer and still smoke. You can know you should exercise and still sit on the couch. You can know you should tell the truth and still lie."

He paused.

"This is the human condition. We know better. We do worse. The question is: why?"

Another hand. "Because we're weak?"

"Define weak."

"Because we don't have enough willpower."

"Is willpower a muscle? Can you run out of it?"

The student hesitated. "Maybe?"

Manning turned back to the board. Wrote:

**WHY AKRASIA HAPPENS:**

1. Desire overcomes reason

2. We rationalize (lie to ourselves)

3. We don't really believe what we claim to know

"Number three is key. If you believed—in your bones, not in your head—that smoking would kill you tomorrow, you'd quit today. But you don't believe it. You assent to the abstract proposition 'smoking causes cancer,' but you don't assent to 'this cigarette will kill me.' So you smoke."

He looked around the room.

"The gap between knowing and doing is the gap between abstract knowledge and concrete belief. Most of what we claim to 'know' is words we can recite. Not beliefs we hold."

A girl near the front: "So how do you close the gap?"

"Good question. Aristotle says: practice. Habit formation. You become virtuous by practicing virtuous actions until they become automatic. You can't think your way into virtue. You have to act your way into it."

Another student: "But what if you can't tell the difference? Between a good reason and a rationalization?"

Manning stopped. The question hung in the air.

"That's the problem," he said slowly. "When you're rationalizing, you don't know you're rationalizing. It feels like reasoning. The only way to know is—"

He stopped. What was the answer? Examine your motivations? Check against principles? Ask someone else?

All true. All useless if you couldn't see clearly in the moment.

"The only way to know is to develop the habit of examining your thoughts. Constantly. Asking: am I reasoning or rationalizing? Am I seeing clearly or wishfully? That's the practice."

The student nodded, but didn't look satisfied.

Manning glanced at the clock. 10:47.

"We'll pick this up Thursday. Read Nicomachean Ethics, Book Seven. Be ready to discuss."

Students packed up. Filed out. Manning erased the board.

*Aristotle is right. Knowledge isn't enough. You can know better and do worse.*

*Like I'm about to.*

He walked back to his office. Unlocked the door. Sat at his desk.

The bottle of Stolichnaya was in the bottom drawer. He'd bought it yesterday. Told himself he wouldn't open it. That he'd keep it there. Available but unused.

He opened the drawer.

*This is the moment. This is akrasia happening.*

He knew he shouldn't drink. He had a meeting at noon. A lecture at 2:00. Drinking at 11:00 A.M. was wrong by any standard—professional, ethical, practical.

He knew all this.

He poured four fingers into a glass. Drank it in two swallows.

*Epictetus says external things have no power over us. Only our judgments about them have power. So alcohol—external. The desire to drink—that's internal, from my judgment that drinking will help.*

*But knowing this doesn't stop me from drinking.*

*Theory is easy. Practice is hard.*

The vodka hit. Warmth spreading. The tightness in his chest loosening.

By noon he was drunk. Not pleasantly buzzed. Drunk—slurring, unsteady, thoughts fragmenting.

He skipped the meeting. Sent an email: "Family emergency. Reschedule."

At 2:00 he stumbled to the lecture hall. Taught Ethics 301 while drunk. Students noticed. Whispered. One girl left early.

At 3:30 his phone rang. Dean Marshall.

"Jim, can you come to my office?"

"Now?"

"Now."

---

Dean Marshall's office. Fourth floor. Manning sat across from her, trying to hold still.

She looked at him for a long moment. Then: "Jim. Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

He said nothing.

"I received a complaint. From a student in your 2:00 class. She said you were slurring. That you smelled like alcohol. That you could barely stand."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. And this isn't the first time. Last week you missed office hours. Two weeks ago you showed up late to a faculty meeting, intoxicated. Three weeks ago—"

"I understand."

"Do you? Because I don't think you do." She leaned forward. "Jim, you're one of our best professors. You built the ethics center. You've published three books. You've been here seventeen years. But if you show up drunk one more time, I'll have no choice but to suspend you."

"I understand."

"I hope you do. Because this is your last warning."

He stood to leave.

"Jim—"

He turned.

"Get help. Please. Whatever's going on, you can't handle it alone."

He nodded. Left.

---

At 5:00 he was back in his office, drinking again.

At 6:30 campus police knocked on his door.

Two officers. Young. Professional. Polite.

"Professor Manning? We need to ask you some questions."

"About what?"

"Can we come in?"

He let them in. They stood awkwardly in his small office.

"We've received a report. About a grade change. For a student named Melissa Chen. Her grade was changed from a C to an A. Without documentation. Can you explain that?"

Manning's mind raced. Melissa Chen. Yes. He'd changed her grade. Last month. She'd asked for an extension on her paper. He'd said yes. Then later—he couldn't remember exactly when—he'd changed her grade before she submitted anything.

Why? Because she needed it for law school applications. Because she was a good student. Because—

*Because I was drunk and not paying attention.*

"I changed it," he said.

"Why?"

"She deserved it."

"But she hadn't submitted her final paper yet. Correct?"

"I—" He stopped. "I don't remember."

"You don't remember changing a student's grade?"

"I remember changing it. I don't remember why."

The officers exchanged glances.

"We also have questions about financial irregularities. Expense reports you signed. Equipment purchases that weren't properly documented. Money that can't be accounted for."

Manning stared at them. Expense reports. Yes. He'd signed them. Dr. Walsh had asked him to. He was director of the ethics center. He signed things.

But he hadn't read them carefully. Hadn't checked the receipts. Hadn't—

*Hadn't been paying attention because I was drinking.*

"I signed them," he said. "But I don't know what they were for."

"You signed financial documents without knowing what they were for?"

"I trusted the people who gave them to me."

"That's not a defense, Professor Manning."

No. It wasn't.

"We'll need you to come to the station tomorrow. To answer more questions. 9:00 A.M. Don't leave town."

They left.

Manning sat in his office. The bottle was still on his desk. Half empty.

He poured another glass. Drank it.

*I knew better. I did worse.*

*Akrasia.*

*Aristotle was right.*

At 8:00 P.M. he walked to his car. Drove home.

Sarah was in the kitchen when he came in.

"Where have you been?"

"Work."

"You're drunk."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You haven't been fine for months."

He said nothing.

"Jim. I can't do this anymore. I can't watch you destroy yourself."

"I'm not—"

"You are. And I can't save you. Only you can save you."

She picked up her purse. Walked to the door.

"I'm staying at my sister's. I'll come back when you're sober. If you ever are."

The door closed.

Manning stood in the empty kitchen.

The silence was total.

He went to the cabinet. Pulled out another bottle. Poured.

*Knowledge isn't enough. You have to practice.*

*But I don't know how to practice what I teach.*

*I only know how to analyze it.*

He drank until he passed out on the couch.

---

Wednesday morning. 7:00 A.M.

Manning woke to pounding on the door.

He stumbled to answer it. Two different police officers. Older. Grimmer.

"Professor Manning, you need to come with us."

"What? Why?"

"You're being suspended pending an investigation. We have a warrant to search your office."

They drove him to campus. Walked him to his office. Yellow police tape across the door.

Students gathering in the hallway. Staring.

The officers unsealed the door. Manning watched them search. Pull files. Photograph his computer. Box up papers.

Dean Marshall appeared. Wouldn't look at him.

"Jim. You're suspended effective immediately. Pending the investigation. Don't come back to campus. Don't contact students. Don't access university systems. A formal hearing will be scheduled. You'll receive notice."

"What am I accused of?"

"Grade tampering. Financial negligence. Possible misconduct with students."

"What misconduct?"

"There are emails. Between you and Melissa Chen. They—they read as inappropriate."

"They're not inappropriate. She's my student. We discussed her paper."

"The tone is—familiar. The university will investigate."

"I didn't do anything inappropriate."

"That's what the hearing will determine."

Manning stood there. Police going through his office. Students watching. His career ending.

*This is not happening. This cannot be happening.*

But it was.

"You should hire a lawyer," Marshall said. Then she left.

The officers finished at noon. Told him he could go home.

Manning walked to his car. Drove.

Didn't go home. Went to the liquor store. Bought two bottles of vodka.

Checked into a motel off Route 45. Room 7. Paid cash.

Locked the door. Opened the first bottle.

*I taught akrasia this morning. And now I'm living it.*

*I know I shouldn't drink. I'm drinking anyway.*

*Because knowing isn't enough.*

He drank until everything went dark.

---