Michael Rieppel

I had heard of Barry's illness about two weeks before he died, from Stanley Chen.  Stan told me that Barry was still reading emails, and I began composing one to him, but then I didn't hit the "send" button in time.  His death came more quickly than I expected.

What I wanted to tell him was that the many classes I took with him, especially the first-year seminar he co-taught with Hannah in the fall of 2005, left a lasting philosophical impression on me.  It's hard to say what exactly it was that so impressed me about him, but it had to do with his unique approach to philosophy and the task of philosophizing, somehow at once quietist and yet deeply invested in philosophical questions and the perplexity they give rise to.  In that first year seminar, he kept us on our toes, and made me realize how easy it is to unwittingly slip into confusions when doing philosophy. The questions he asked could be disorienting, like having the rug pulled out from under one's feet, but in a good way. He was one of only a handful of teachers I've had in my life whose classes I will never forget.

Barry was also a fun and engaging person to hang out with, something philosophers aren't generally known for.  Lindsay Crawford hosted a going-away party when she and I both left Berkeley in 2015. It was mostly graduate students, but Barry came, drank wine, and talked with everyone there for some time.  I told him about my upcoming road trip to my new job in upstate New York, with a cat in the car, and he dispensed tips and reminiscences from his own experience driving across the country with a cat.  That was the last conversation I had with him, unfortunately, but it's a very good memory.