Read the following passage and questions, then choose the right answer from options, the answer should be one of A, B, C, D.

<passage>:
matter which we know to be our own. But there had been no need to wait for that distant day. Scant years after he had written those prophetic words the thing was Wasn't There by CLIFFORD D. SIMAK and CARL JACOBI Mr. Jonathon Chambers left his house on Maple Street at exactly seven o'clock in the evening and set out on the daily walk he had home. He didn't walk fast. He took his time. He always returned to his Chambers took his cigar. That was all. For people long ago had gathered that Mr. Chambers desired to be left alone. The newer generation of townsfolk called it eccentricity. Certain uncouth persons had a different word for A professor of metaphysics, they seemed to recall, or some such outlandish subject. At any rate a furore of some sort was connected with his name ... at the time an academic scandal. He had written a book, and he had taught the subject matter of that volume to his classes. What that subject matter was, had long been forgotten, but whatever it was had been considered sufficiently revolutionary to cost Mr. Chambers his post at the university. October wind was rustling the dead leaves when Mr. Chambers he never did that. For twenty years, since the year following his expulsion from the university, he had lived by the clock. The same thing, at the same time, day after day. He had not deliberately set upon such a life of routine. A bachelor, living alone with sufficient money to supply his humble needs, the timed snarling and growling, snapping at his heels. But Mr. Chambers was blurting floated to Mr. Chambers. "... still taking place ... Empire State building disappeared ... "Oh, well," said Mr. Chambers, "I never did like that very well." The wind whipped the muted words away and Mr. Chambers grumbled thin air ... famed scientist, Dr. Edmund Harcourt...." probably. He remembered one from many years before, something about the Martians. And Harcourt! What did Harcourt have to do with it? He was one of the men who had ridiculed the book Mr. Chambers had written. But he pushed speculation away, sniffed the clean, crisp air again, looked at the familiar things that materialized out of the late off the irresistible march of nothingness. One man, all alone, absolutely nothing in the world ... that he would let upset him. That was a tenet he had laid down twenty years ago. simply couldn't do it. But, after all, what was the use? One man, alone, could not stand autumn darkness as he walked along. For there was nothing ... He wondered if he would retain his individuality ... if he still would be a person. Or would he merely be a thing? There was one answer to all of that. He simply didn't know. then stepped back and Mr. Chambers continued on his walk. Mr. Chambers started. The clock had stopped. Funny ... the first Shaken, muttering to himself, Mr. Chambers let himself in his But silence was no strange thing to Mr. Chambers. Once he had He had stopped reading newspapers and magazines too, had exiled himself to a few city blocks. And as the years flowed by, that self exile had become a prison, an intangible, impassable wall undoubtedly induced by hunger and privation and the miseries of war. But those things he put away as items far removed from his own of them. Others might discuss and worry over them if they wished. To him they simply did not matter. define nor understand. When finally he dozed off it was to lose himself in a series of horrific dreams. He dreamed first that he was a castaway on a For the first time in twenty years, Mr. Chambers retraced his unsteadily to his chair in the corner. What was this? What did it mean? By what inconceivable necromancy could a paved street with houses, trees and buildings life, knew nothing about? Mr. Chambers shivered, reached to turn up the collar of his coat, America. Billions, perhaps. And somehow those gruesome statistics seemed tied up with his own experience. Something, somewhere, some part of his earlier life, seemed to hold an explanation. But try as he would his befuddled brain failed to find the answer. Mr. Chambers got to his feet, strode to the door, opened it and With a sigh of relief, Mr. Chambers turned back into the hall. Gulping in fright, Mr. Chambers slammed the door shut, locked it him. Rigid, he sat there, limp inside at the thought. Minutes later he arose and almost ran across the room to the old mahogany bookcase that stood against the wall. There were many volumes in the case: his beloved classics on the first shelf, his many scientific works on the lower shelves. The second shelf contained but one book. And it was around this book that Mr. Chambers' entire life was centered. Twenty years ago he had written it and foolishly attempted to teach its philosophy to a class of undergraduates. The newspapers, he remembered, had made a great deal of it at the time. Tongues had been set to wagging. Narrow-minded townsfolk, failing to understand of some anti-rational cult, had forced his expulsion from the school. It was a simple book, really, dismissed by most authorities as merely the vagaries of an over-zealous mind. Mr. Chambers took it down now, opened its cover and began thumbing slowly through the pages. For a moment the memory of happier days swept over him. Then his eyes focused on the paragraph, a paragraph written so long ago the very words seemed strange and unreal: Man himself, by the power of mass suggestion, holds the physical will crumple and slip away like a column of sand.... His eyes followed down the page: Yet this would have nothing to do with matter itself ... but only with matter's form. For while the mind of man through long to himself. Another one of those fantastic radio dramas, matter which we know to be our own. He stood astounded beside the bookcase, his eyes staring unseeing into the fire upon the hearth. He had written that. And because of those words he had been called a heretic, had been compelled to resign his position at the university, had been forced into this hermit life. A tumultuous idea hammered at him. Men had died by the millions Perhaps, if he thought hard enough, he could bring them back. heard, the words of the men at the drugstore corner, the buildings disappearing. Something scientists could not explain. But those were merely scraps of information. He did not know the whole story ... he could not know. He never listened to the radio, never read a newspaper. But abruptly the whole thing fitted together in his brain like the missing piece of a puzzle into its slot. The significance of universe into its own plane! Abruptly Mr. Chambers closed the book, shoved it back in the case and picked up his hat and coat. He had to know more. He had to find someone who could tell him. With a wild cry, Mr. Chambers turned and ran. Back down the Mr. Chambers pushed open the door of his house. But he did not But how long could he ... his brain ... maintain its existence? Mr. Chambers stared at the marine print and for a moment a little away. The rest of the world might dissolve because there was insufficient power of thought to retain its outward form. But this room was his. He alone had furnished it. He alone, since he had first planned the house's building, had lived here. This room would stay. It must stay on ... it must.... He rose from his chair and walked across the room to the book case, stood staring at the second shelf with its single volume. For all the books weren't there. A lot of books weren't there! Only the most beloved, the most familiar ones. So the change already had started here! The unfamiliar books were gone and that fitted in the pattern ... for it would be the least familiar things that would go first. of all men who walked the earth. For he, and he alone, had foreseen this very thing. And the others had scoffed at him for it.

<question>:
Why was Mr. Chambers fired from his university?

<options>:
A He was too unsociable.
B Dr. Harcourt did not like him.
C He exposed students to a philosophy.
D He wrote a book.

<answer>:

C