![]() ![]() Lore, also retired, had worked with autistic teenagers after graduating with a master’s degree from the University of Chicago. Martin had his private study, his books, his pipe tobacco-a scholar’s nest in which he immersed himself in his latest project, on moira, the concept of fate among the Greeks. In the evening, Lore listened to classical music on headphones so as not to disturb him. I immediately took a liking to this elderly gentleman with a thick German accent who wore a jacket and tie, always with a tie clip, David said, even to rake leaves or shovel snow, and whose Old World tact and bonhomie made him so beloved of his former students that many had emulated their mentor, becoming university professors themselves.Īccording to his son, Martin would walk every day to the library, where he had his own cubicle, come home for lunch, and then return to the library until it was time for dinner. On holidays and long weekends, he and his wife, Lore, would sometimes drive from Pennsylvania to see their son and his family in New York, and it was on one of these visits that David arranged for us to meet over dinner. By then, Martin had retired from his position as a classics professor at Swarthmore, where he had taught for many years. ![]() I met Martin Ostwald in 1996, shortly after I became friends with his son David, whose son was in the same kindergarten class as mine. ![]()
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