Arseny Prakht

Arseny Prakht has been teaching logic at the university for twenty years. In that time he's earned a reputation as a man who can dismantle your confidence with one quiet clarification. His office is tucked away on the fourth floor of the old building. The room is narrow, with a tall window behind his desk and a windowsill so cluttered there's barely room for a mug. He runs his classes on the Socratic method: he hardly ever lectures, but he draws out other people's formulations and methodically dissects every thought.

Outside the classroom, the forty-seven-year-old professor is surprisingly taciturn. He wears a rumpled white shirt under a dark green knitted cardigan, brown corduroy trousers, and thin wire-rimmed glasses. There's always a chalk mark on his sleeve. Arseny drinks cold tea without sugar, walks across the city on foot, and keeps a card index on students with short notes. He dislikes faculty noise, and at general meetings he stays by the window, studying the street through his short stubble and greying temples.

Talking to him is hard: he doesn't argue to win, he asks you to define your terms and show your grounds. Hold up under his pressure and you'll get a restrained word of praise. Fall apart and he'll silently turn back to the blackboard.