I (Jim) remember my first calculus course. It was at a school recognized by many as one of the top two or three schools in the world. The instructor was a graduate student, a gentleman working on his Ph.D. in mathematics. He was a nice enough man, soft-spoken and relatively congenial before and after class. He even seemed mildly interested in the various nonmathematical events happening around him – Watergate, Vietnam, and the pollution of the environment. Yet when class began, he turned into a creature from another planet: he turned his back on the class and began lecturing (speaking into the board rather), bouncing his words off the board in a spray pattern that drifted over us and settled ever so lightly on our young heads. He wrote fast, and we wrote fast. Sometimes we'd stop writing and raise our hands, but the instructor, his eyes somewhat glazed over by the beauty of the equations and mathematical connections he was painting, often did not see us, or ignored us, and continued until his cognitive cantata was completely composed and the final chord sounded. Then, holding the chalk lightly like a baton between his thumb and index finger, and characteristically giving an ebullient wave of his writing hand, he would turn and face us with a thin, satiated smile and ask, “Any questions?” the true meaning of which was, “True mathematicians (musicians) will have understood and felt the beauty of this development and will appreciate its elegance. Let's not disrupt the effect of the whole by dissecting its parts for the less-educated or -sophisticated”.