There are moments as a teacher when I'm conscious that I'm

Hear now the reflection of Abraham Verghese, who speaks of the strange inheritance of memory: “There are moments as a teacher when I am conscious that I am trotting out the same exact phrase my professor used with me years ago. It is an eerie feeling, as if my old mentor is not just in the room, but in my shoes, using me as his mouthpiece.” In these words lies the mystery of how knowledge passes from generation to generation, not only through books and parchment, but through living breath, tone, and rhythm. The teacher does not speak alone; he carries within him the echo of those who once shaped his mind.

To be a teacher is to be a vessel, and to be a student is to be written upon. Every phrase, every counsel, every rebuke from the past engraves itself upon the soul. Time passes, the student becomes the master, and one day, without intending, he finds the old words rising from his lips. It is then that he feels the presence of his mentor, a ghost not of sorrow but of continuity, reminding him that no wisdom truly dies when passed faithfully from one heart to another. This is the sacred chain of knowledge, forged not by ink alone but by voice, memory, and example.

Think upon the story of Plato, who in the groves of the Academy spoke words shaped by his master Socrates. In his dialogues, though his hand moved the stylus, one can still hear the cadence of Socrates’ questioning, the piercing logic of his method. Was it not as though the old man of Athens still walked beside him, guiding his pen, making his disciple a mouthpiece for truths first kindled in another age? And so too, when Aristotle taught, the flame of both Plato and Socrates burned within him. This is how wisdom conquers time: by inhabiting new vessels, generation upon generation.

Yet Verghese reminds us also of the eerie feeling this can stir. For when the voice of another comes through our own, we glimpse how little of ourselves is truly isolated. We are not solitary creators of meaning, but continuations of a great tapestry, threads woven by countless hands. To realize this is both humbling and empowering. Humbling, for it reveals that even our most original words may carry the imprint of another. Empowering, for it shows us that by teaching, we too may one day live on in voices yet unborn.

This inheritance of speech is not limited to teachers alone. Consider the orators of Rome, who often echoed the phrases of Cicero, whether knowingly or not. When later senators thundered in the Forum, Cicero’s spirit lingered in their cadence, his rhetoric alive though his body lay long in dust. Or recall the way prayers are whispered across generations: the same words a mother taught her child, the child teaches to his own, and thus the lips of the living bear the voices of the dead.

Therefore, O listeners, cherish the phrases your mentors gave you. Do not dismiss them as stale repetition, for they are living bridges across time. When their words rise upon your tongue, honor them, for you are participating in an eternal dialogue between past and future. You are both yourself and more than yourself—you are the guardian of a lineage.

The lesson is this: teaching is not merely the transfer of facts, but the transmission of spirit. When you find yourself echoing your teacher, rejoice, for you are proof that their life was not in vain. And when you teach, know that your words too will one day return, carried by others into halls and hearts you will never see.

Practical counsel I give: remember your mentors with gratitude, and let their wisdom live through you with reverence, not rote. Record the sayings that moved you, repeat them with intention, and add to them your own flame. In this way, you honor the past while shaping the future. Speak not only to instruct, but to join the chorus of voices that time cannot silence. For when the student becomes the teacher, and the teacher’s words become the student’s own, eternity itself speaks.