I first met Charlie at a lecture in St Jude's Hall where I was to observe a friend, an American graduate student pursuing the entomological study of luminescent beetles, 'picking up' young women to illustrate the true depths of American geniality. 

Having observed the near-disastrous results of mon ami's efforts,  I quickly disassociated from his company and moved toward the dissipating cloud of students around a wizened lecturer. It was Charles (Semplah Auf Zembla) Kinbote. Charlie. 

His voice carried shocking consonance. Every syllable, every turn of phrase flowed like the tinkling droplets of a crystal river. By the way of the Tao was his speech edified.  It strikes me now, some thirty years in passing, that I hardly understood the contents of his speech; one could not break past the faultless surface and into comprehension just as one cannot visually resolve the coruscant sequins on a pedestrian's dress as one is shifting from the second gear to the third on a bright Sunday afternoon. 

I listened to several of Charlie's lectures in earnest throughout my time on the varsity. Were it not for his soothing Zemblan accent annunciating some angelic syrup into my troubled soul, I might have left the United States and returned to my home country of weevils and milkmaids.  

For that, I remember Charlie.