is the word that is stuck in my head- inexplicably- and preventing me from concentrating on my paper about whether the manor system was a stabilizing force in society or not (it was!). So while my brain is on an unauthorized and indefinite vacation, I might as well blog. It is good to deal with words in a nonthreatening way.
On the brink of week seven of eight. On the Friday of week eight, I will be speeding under water, over fields, and across other geographic obstacles to Rennes, France where I will join Carmen, Erin and Bjorn for an extended weekend. Before that, Joe is coming for a week (arriving this Saturday!). All of this is wonderful, except that it means I will be up to my eyeballs in it for the next five days. Despite the exciting reunions and relaxing break from work on my very immediate horizons, I can't get away from the feeling that the work I have to do right now is physically crushing me. I will refrain from listing assignments (for your sake as much as mine), but its a lot. Five papers left. And one is enormous. I have promised myself that I will wait to do an official post about the Oxford education system until I am a full week out, so I will stop short here, but just say that for now I am feeling oppressed and saddened that the system is cramping my style and curbing my enthusiasm for the subject with excessive doses of stress and deadlines.
In these times of unbearable academic pressures, I find myself thinking about Olaf more than usual, wishing I were there with my good friends, who make any amount of work seem manageable. In fact, I would even go so far to say that Cinderella is to the ball as I am to Olafia right now. One honest wish haunts me as I work indefinitely, in under an oppressive authority, feeling more and more like I will just simply never get where I want to be. I was thinking about this on Friday in a very small unoccupied corner of my brain... listening to Disney Cinderella soundtrack in the background while I closed up all the windows on my desktop. It had been ages since I shut my computer all the way down, usually I just leave all the word documents up, and the email tabs, and on top of that is itunes... but Friday I finally ex-ed out of them all for the first time in days. When I closed the very last document, I could finally see my desktop picture- the gang at Olaf, posing with their nerf guns. I admit that the picture made me succumb to despair, but only for a moment. I rallied, and checked my email.
There was one message in my inbox from a fellow Ole who I've seen around, but never really gotten to know well- I didn't know he was about to become my fairy godmother. Kaleb Sutherland had written me an email- he's studying in London! and visiting Oxford for the weekend. Would I like to meet up? Oh yes fairy godmother from Olafia! It was almost too good to be true. The prospect of seeing another Ole within 24 hours brought happiness back to my extremities. We set up a tea date for this afternoon (Sunday) and I am happy to tell you that we had a wonderful time at a tea place, thumbing our noses at the rain, and sharing an umbrella like the oldest friends. We dropped Olaf vocab left and right: "Cage" "Mellby" "El Con" "Cheruwatick" - it had a really fortifying effect. I love Oles. Even the ones I don't know very well. Its like- oh you're in a foreign country feeling lonely and overwhelmed? Here, let's set up a coffee date, I'll make you feel better and give you a hug, no questions asked. Kaleb even bought my groceries when Tesco refused my debit card. He is the best fairy godmother, and I would not trade him. With his good company, I feel like I will make it to the finish line (March 11th) alive. In fact, I am feeling pretty good about making it to this Saturday and Joe's arrival with most of that big paper done... as soon as I get the word "anathema" out of my head, that is.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
A confused, yet exemplary stream of consciousness
608 words into this week's last paper, goal for the night is 800. So close! I think I can do this, survive the next 15 days, that is... one paper at a time. I wonder if I could get an I.V. for my tea, that way I wouldn't spill it all over my notes. But that doesn't matter. The main point of this post is to remind myself that when this is all over I need to sit down and write my novel, except with a Ciceronian relationship at its core, and not an Arthurian one... the soundtrack will have to be Rachmaninoff Symphony 2, not Wagner.... and I should definitely drink chamomile while I'm writing, not English Breakfast. If possible, elaborate on Gawain, and not Galahad, who is a boring swot.
I think it is ok if that statement wasn't very cohesive or intelligible. It makes perfect sense to me, which just goes to illustrate how my Oxford education seems to be making it more and more difficult to communicate on a functional level. Those are my insights for the day. That, and I miss you all at home, but don't worry, you're in my thoughts just as much as all the other random jumble of romances and pyramidal social models, and that is turning out to be a very good thing.
I think it is ok if that statement wasn't very cohesive or intelligible. It makes perfect sense to me, which just goes to illustrate how my Oxford education seems to be making it more and more difficult to communicate on a functional level. Those are my insights for the day. That, and I miss you all at home, but don't worry, you're in my thoughts just as much as all the other random jumble of romances and pyramidal social models, and that is turning out to be a very good thing.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Academia
Ah, the Carfax clock tower outside my window is chiming quarter past five... the most awkward time of day. Post-run, yet pre-dinner, there is not quite enough time for a chapter of reading, nor for a proper viola session. As long as I continue to schedule my day poorly, I will usually have just the right amount of time for an afternoon blog. Today I am piggy backing off of the blogs of some of the Oles in France who find themselves immersed in a new language and culture. When I read their blogs, I get a little jealous, and kick myself for being too cowardly to do an immersion program. I am not sure if my recent thoughts on the matter have been self-justifying, or if there is any objective truth in them, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that my experience here really isonly library from which we can borrow), and most days I wake up, give myself a little shake, and pick up reading off my pillow exactly where I left off the night before. So I guess it makes sense that the dreams in between these events are of the same subject matter. a type of immersion. I think it was Carmen who told me she was dreaming in French these days; I've been having weird dreams too, not necessarily with British accents, but definitely related to the work I'm doing here. There is just so much to read and write about, I often fall asleep at night literally face first in a book (minus 10 if you drool in a CMRS library book, the
Here's a good example. When I get stressed out, my brain consistently reverts to pregnancy dreams. As if that weren't bad enough, last night, after reading about how third and fourth sons of aristocratic families were often offered up to God to be brought up as monks, I dreamed that I brought my newborn son to the steps of the Bodelian in the dead of night and left him there to be brought up as an Oxford scholar. Now, that is not a normal dream, if you ask me. I alluded to this in my last post, but I think its worth restating that scholasticism is like a mineral in the water, which you drink without tasting, or a visible vapor in the air. The history of learning pervades everything from the architecture to the law (I am not sure how they could possibly enforce this, but there is a law that forbids students from climbing towers or past second stories of buildings during exam periods. This after a rash of stress-induced suicides back in the day). Even the homeless man in the meadows bears the distinct symptoms of having lived in a place that is literally haunted by the ghosts of scholars and students.
According to the magnanimous and wise Professor Dumbledore, magic always leaves a trace (See book 6). I find this informed claim interesting in conjunction with the following observations of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola:
I have also proposed certain theses concerning magic, in which I have indicated that magic has two forms. One consists wholly in the operations and powers of demons and consequently this appears to me, as God is my witness, and execrable and monstrous thing. The other proves, when thoroughly investigated, to be nothing else but the highest realization of natural philosophy [read: learning] ...The first is the most deceitful of arts; the second, a higher and holier philosophy.
-From Pico's Oration on the Dignity of Man (1486)
I draw upon the ideas of these two gentlemen to illustrate my point: the academia of this place, of Oxford, is so old as to be almost magical. To the members of the 21st century, there is something intoxicating about Oxford's 13th century origins, which were anything but institutionalized. The ceremonies that go on here every day, the dead languages that are almost like supernatural incantations, and the peculiar taste of old paper, glue and ink that hangs around the center of town (yes, I could actually taste books when I walked into the Bodelian yesterday) all combine to give the ethereal atmosphere here a noticeably different density. People come from all over the world to study here because this culture is so thrilling and different and ancient. It is mysterious, and yet a human creation, and therefore familiar. In other words, Oxford's culture of learning is most certainly, as Pico suggests, a type of magic, or at least a type of old world power, which may be used for good or evil. Like Dumbledore says, no matter what you do, it will leave its mark on you, whether in dreams, in the way you think, or maybe even something more lasting.
Consider Dr. Crowe M.A., Ph. D. and CMRS Academic Librarian and Senior Dean. At first he was a bit of a mystery to us. He introduced himself in the first week, and I used his horn-rimmed glasses and golden pocket watch to differentiate him from the other tutors in my mind. Dr. Crowe usually gives us a lecture every other week for our introduction to colloquium (Renaissance and Enlightenment). The man is a walking encyclopedia. He will stand in front of us at the lectern for a solid hour and just- talk- with little or no interruption, and certainly no notes, checking his pocket watch every so often. When he brings his lectures to a close, you feel he is doing so not because he has run out of things to say, but rather that he is forcing himself to be punctual. His accent is crisp even for a British scholar, and his silk translucent socks shine forth from beneath his trouser hem like a status symbol. For all the brilliance he pours forth every fortnight, I almost never see him elsewhere. He enters and exits the lecture hall by a separate back door, giving the distinct impression of a mad scientist returning to his laboratory after a requisite fortnightly break. He does indeed have a secret laboratory, or rather, the CMRS library, which is unofficially off limits to students. To request books, we fill out a slip of paper with the call number and our names, drop them in a small post box attached to the library door, and then wait for the book to magically appear in our PO box later in the day.
Last week I got up the nerve to make an appointment for him to show me the rare book collection. I entered the library a little nervously to see Dr. Crowe enthroned at a desk piled high with books, smack dab in the middle of the entire library, like the whole room was his office. "Ah, yes, there you are" he said, but you have to say it to yourself with a British accent and more stress on the aspirants than you would normally think. He then took me into the back corner, and showed me our moderate collection of rare, old books. Most of them were from the 17th century, publications of classical philosophers, standard texts, etc. There were some books of old music, an old journal in fancy handwriting, and then, finally, the jewel of our collection, a four-volume illuminated German Bible from 1481. Apparently certain of its pages would sell for tens of thousands of pounds, but he would sooner tear a limb off his child than detach a page from his Bible.
Dr. Crowe has been tracing the origins of this Bible and finding out everything he can about it for the past five years, and it is true he handled it more like his child than a book. He knew which pages to turn delicately, and which ones were ok to handle a little more vigorously. He knew exactly where to go to show me such and such illumination technique, or how different hands had drawn in the marginalia over hundreds of years. His reverent soliloquy went on for over an hour, as he pointed out the personality of the illuminator, musing aloud to himself on how he probably wrote this capital towards the end of the day when he was hungry and eager to leave off for the night, or how this little curly-que is extraneous and probably indicated extreme boredom. Apparently there is a whole subculture of meanings and symbols in the little pictures of medieval illuminations, and illuminators had to follow guidebooks and style guides. Crowe was all about discovering the personality of the illuminator. He displayed the greatest tenderness towards the book, I wouldn't have thought he quite had it in him based on the crisp delivery of his lectures and formal emails, but he did, he caressed the pages, and smiled to himself, and got all excited as he pointed to random curly-ques and letters, as though he has never seen them before, when really he knew that book better than Tristan knew Isolde (sorry Carmen, read the 12th century Thomas manuscript and I think your appreciation for the story will soar).
In fact, as I left over an hour later, that was what worried me the most. I was out in the sun again, topside, you might say, but Crowe was still back among the books, and would be there indefinitely, checking his pocket watch and tugging at his silk socks, but to what end? Pico's magic has left its mark on him, I can say that much with confidence. I worry, though, that it has not only marked him, but claimed him as well. Being a scholar of Crowe's level means you see things that other people don't see, like how Harry Potter can see platform 9 and 3/4 when muggles cannot. Dr. Crowe can see all sorts of things coming out of the woodwork. He looks at an illuminated Bible and sees the illuminator himself, as though he could conjure ghosts by his study. I wouldn't doubt that he is accompanied in his library by the real phantoms of 15th century. At times, during my personal tour, I got the distinct impression that he had forgotten I was there, and yet continued to talk in a low voice, as though he was used to murmuring to himself or some type of undead person lingering between the books on the shelf and his own mind. In other words, I am concerned that being able to see things that other people cannot see will make you yourself invisible- part of the woodwork, and someone will have to undergo a lifetime of Oxford study to learn enough magic to unlock your phantom from the hidden codes of your illumination, poetry, or symbolic language.
In response to my complaints of loneliness here, a very brilliant man told me that to be a true scholar is to be alone. I think now I have to determine whether or not a lifetime of learning means I have no end of company and interesting historical people before me, or if I will ultimately come to a certain point in my life and find myself alone in a library, surrounded by phantoms which I, in my witchcraft, have unwittingly conjured to keep myself company.
Here's a good example. When I get stressed out, my brain consistently reverts to pregnancy dreams. As if that weren't bad enough, last night, after reading about how third and fourth sons of aristocratic families were often offered up to God to be brought up as monks, I dreamed that I brought my newborn son to the steps of the Bodelian in the dead of night and left him there to be brought up as an Oxford scholar. Now, that is not a normal dream, if you ask me. I alluded to this in my last post, but I think its worth restating that scholasticism is like a mineral in the water, which you drink without tasting, or a visible vapor in the air. The history of learning pervades everything from the architecture to the law (I am not sure how they could possibly enforce this, but there is a law that forbids students from climbing towers or past second stories of buildings during exam periods. This after a rash of stress-induced suicides back in the day). Even the homeless man in the meadows bears the distinct symptoms of having lived in a place that is literally haunted by the ghosts of scholars and students.
According to the magnanimous and wise Professor Dumbledore, magic always leaves a trace (See book 6). I find this informed claim interesting in conjunction with the following observations of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola:
I have also proposed certain theses concerning magic, in which I have indicated that magic has two forms. One consists wholly in the operations and powers of demons and consequently this appears to me, as God is my witness, and execrable and monstrous thing. The other proves, when thoroughly investigated, to be nothing else but the highest realization of natural philosophy [read: learning] ...The first is the most deceitful of arts; the second, a higher and holier philosophy.
-From Pico's Oration on the Dignity of Man (1486)
I draw upon the ideas of these two gentlemen to illustrate my point: the academia of this place, of Oxford, is so old as to be almost magical. To the members of the 21st century, there is something intoxicating about Oxford's 13th century origins, which were anything but institutionalized. The ceremonies that go on here every day, the dead languages that are almost like supernatural incantations, and the peculiar taste of old paper, glue and ink that hangs around the center of town (yes, I could actually taste books when I walked into the Bodelian yesterday) all combine to give the ethereal atmosphere here a noticeably different density. People come from all over the world to study here because this culture is so thrilling and different and ancient. It is mysterious, and yet a human creation, and therefore familiar. In other words, Oxford's culture of learning is most certainly, as Pico suggests, a type of magic, or at least a type of old world power, which may be used for good or evil. Like Dumbledore says, no matter what you do, it will leave its mark on you, whether in dreams, in the way you think, or maybe even something more lasting.
Consider Dr. Crowe M.A., Ph. D. and CMRS Academic Librarian and Senior Dean. At first he was a bit of a mystery to us. He introduced himself in the first week, and I used his horn-rimmed glasses and golden pocket watch to differentiate him from the other tutors in my mind. Dr. Crowe usually gives us a lecture every other week for our introduction to colloquium (Renaissance and Enlightenment). The man is a walking encyclopedia. He will stand in front of us at the lectern for a solid hour and just- talk- with little or no interruption, and certainly no notes, checking his pocket watch every so often. When he brings his lectures to a close, you feel he is doing so not because he has run out of things to say, but rather that he is forcing himself to be punctual. His accent is crisp even for a British scholar, and his silk translucent socks shine forth from beneath his trouser hem like a status symbol. For all the brilliance he pours forth every fortnight, I almost never see him elsewhere. He enters and exits the lecture hall by a separate back door, giving the distinct impression of a mad scientist returning to his laboratory after a requisite fortnightly break. He does indeed have a secret laboratory, or rather, the CMRS library, which is unofficially off limits to students. To request books, we fill out a slip of paper with the call number and our names, drop them in a small post box attached to the library door, and then wait for the book to magically appear in our PO box later in the day.
Last week I got up the nerve to make an appointment for him to show me the rare book collection. I entered the library a little nervously to see Dr. Crowe enthroned at a desk piled high with books, smack dab in the middle of the entire library, like the whole room was his office. "Ah, yes, there you are" he said, but you have to say it to yourself with a British accent and more stress on the aspirants than you would normally think. He then took me into the back corner, and showed me our moderate collection of rare, old books. Most of them were from the 17th century, publications of classical philosophers, standard texts, etc. There were some books of old music, an old journal in fancy handwriting, and then, finally, the jewel of our collection, a four-volume illuminated German Bible from 1481. Apparently certain of its pages would sell for tens of thousands of pounds, but he would sooner tear a limb off his child than detach a page from his Bible.
Dr. Crowe has been tracing the origins of this Bible and finding out everything he can about it for the past five years, and it is true he handled it more like his child than a book. He knew which pages to turn delicately, and which ones were ok to handle a little more vigorously. He knew exactly where to go to show me such and such illumination technique, or how different hands had drawn in the marginalia over hundreds of years. His reverent soliloquy went on for over an hour, as he pointed out the personality of the illuminator, musing aloud to himself on how he probably wrote this capital towards the end of the day when he was hungry and eager to leave off for the night, or how this little curly-que is extraneous and probably indicated extreme boredom. Apparently there is a whole subculture of meanings and symbols in the little pictures of medieval illuminations, and illuminators had to follow guidebooks and style guides. Crowe was all about discovering the personality of the illuminator. He displayed the greatest tenderness towards the book, I wouldn't have thought he quite had it in him based on the crisp delivery of his lectures and formal emails, but he did, he caressed the pages, and smiled to himself, and got all excited as he pointed to random curly-ques and letters, as though he has never seen them before, when really he knew that book better than Tristan knew Isolde (sorry Carmen, read the 12th century Thomas manuscript and I think your appreciation for the story will soar).
In fact, as I left over an hour later, that was what worried me the most. I was out in the sun again, topside, you might say, but Crowe was still back among the books, and would be there indefinitely, checking his pocket watch and tugging at his silk socks, but to what end? Pico's magic has left its mark on him, I can say that much with confidence. I worry, though, that it has not only marked him, but claimed him as well. Being a scholar of Crowe's level means you see things that other people don't see, like how Harry Potter can see platform 9 and 3/4 when muggles cannot. Dr. Crowe can see all sorts of things coming out of the woodwork. He looks at an illuminated Bible and sees the illuminator himself, as though he could conjure ghosts by his study. I wouldn't doubt that he is accompanied in his library by the real phantoms of 15th century. At times, during my personal tour, I got the distinct impression that he had forgotten I was there, and yet continued to talk in a low voice, as though he was used to murmuring to himself or some type of undead person lingering between the books on the shelf and his own mind. In other words, I am concerned that being able to see things that other people cannot see will make you yourself invisible- part of the woodwork, and someone will have to undergo a lifetime of Oxford study to learn enough magic to unlock your phantom from the hidden codes of your illumination, poetry, or symbolic language.
In response to my complaints of loneliness here, a very brilliant man told me that to be a true scholar is to be alone. I think now I have to determine whether or not a lifetime of learning means I have no end of company and interesting historical people before me, or if I will ultimately come to a certain point in my life and find myself alone in a library, surrounded by phantoms which I, in my witchcraft, have unwittingly conjured to keep myself company.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Formal Hall
It's been awhile since I've posted, but I have lots of good excuses, most of them having to do with libraries, late nights, and close deadlines. Fifth week is notoriously difficult at Oxford, but suffice for now to say that I survived, and intend to do a proper blog about the Oxford education system really soon. This past week has been a whirlwind not only because of the academic rigours, but also because of a really amazing experience of last night, which I guess falls more into the social category. It all started on Monday at lunch, when I sat down with a plate of unidentifiable gray vegetables and a hunk of bread (standard fare). I had the good fortune to sit next to one of my few St. Peters acquaintances, Henry. I only ever see him at meals sometimes, but he is a good talker, and has a nice mellowing effect which is a welcome change from my fellow Americans...we tend to bond by spazing out about homework together. Earlier in the term, I inducted Henry into the CMRS cult by a trial of fire, accosting him as a stranger one day and insisting he come to the Harry Potter read aloud at St. Michale's Hall. I was really surprised when he showed up that night with a friend, but we've had good chats at lunches ever since. He is very proper in a way that makes me feel bad about putting my elbows on the table. It is a shame he was too shy to read Harry Potter for us, because he has a lovely speaking voice, which is so soft I usually have difficulty hearing him over the buzz of the dining hall. It is very difficult not to like someone who is soft mannered and soft-spoken, especially when you are being bombarded with new things, hard work, and a constant mild case of homesickness, a lunch with Henry is often the best cure. Anyway, although I do enjoy the odd lunch with him, I hardly know him at all, so I was very surprised when he invited me to Formal Hall for his birthday. I guess I should explain Formal Hall: every Thursday, St. Peters offers a fancy dinner for students after the normal gross dinner hour. You sign up for it early, and pay a little extra, but all in all it is a fantastic deal. The dining hall gets transformed into a beautiful dinner venue, with big white tablecloths, and nice china, and silver candelabras casting candlelight over the otherwise dark scene. It sounds like it would be really dark, especially with the wood paneling, but really the light shines off the white tablecloth, and sparkles off the silverware, and the overall effect is warmth and light. The big scary portraits of be-wigged founders hide up in the shadows of the upper walls, and don't bother us with their accusing stares. Dinner is a three course meal, and students are encouraged to bring their own wine. Unfortunately, CMRS students are not allowed to go unless as a guest of a St. Peter's student, so I really felt VIP getting an invite. I met Henry and his friends at the St. Peter's bar at 7:00 (all the colleges have their own pubs, it is totally bizarre coming from St. Olaf). They were all wearing their black robes. Yes, students here really do have robes to wear at special occasions, although for undergrads, they are only short, billowing little vests with rather pathetic arm flaps. At some of the oldest and most traditional colleges, like Merton (where Tolkien taught) you have to wear your robes to every meal, but St. Peter's is rather new, so they get off easy. Henry had on a full length robe over his Oxford button down. His friend James whispered to me that he got full robes because he's a Scholar with a capital "S," but I wasn't supposed to talk about it because he gets modest and apparently it is painful to watch him deny his brilliance, and we shouldn't make him endure the ordeal on his birthday. "Modest little swot" he added fondly. We had a drink, and then stopped at the laundry on our way to dinner, in a failed attempt to smuggle out a robe for me so I wouldn't stick out so much. The laundry lady was too smart for us, and wouldn't hear of our "borrowing" a robe, so I had to go without, but I thought the gesture was awfully nice of them.
We arrived at the dining hall at 7:30 with a mass of other people. It was all lit up and warm, just as I described before. I sat down next to Henry's friend James, who turned out to be a hoot. Before we could talk too much, however, someone hit a gavel at the high table, and all the students stopped talking immediately, and stood up stick straight. Americans would never have been able to manage it. I had no idea what was going on. As I stood there, looking wide eyed at Henry across the table for instructions, a line of tutors began to process in behind me, with the headmaster taking up the rear. They were all decked out in full robed splendour, very silent and austere. When they reached the table, I bent my knees to sit, but James elbowed me not to. In a moment, someone at the high table began to say a very loud and forceful prayer in Latin (I was later told that he had a strong Scottish accent on top of the Latin, but I would never have been able to pick it out) We said "Amen" and sat down, and then things got much more casual. They brought us out some delicious minted pea soup with bread and butter, and then some sort of white fish on top of lentils, and finally dessert and coffee. Everyone looked so pretty in the candlelight, and the gentle hum of voices reverberated around the room, sort of lulling me into a good mood. The wine was passed around freely, and I tried some really excellent white stuff from Tuscany. The main entertainment for my meal, at least, was James, my neighbor. He reminded me of a combination of my Ole boys, only British: he is a maths major (Bjorn), and also an avid bird watcher (Ben). He was telling me how excited he was to spend he weekend in Jericho, the next town over, because there was some sort of rare pigeon there, that was supposed to have migrated to Japan, but flew West instead of East, and ended up in England. Apparently it has bird watchers all excited, he is going on a pilgrimage there tomorrow to see the rare pigeon in residence, I thought that was pretty remarkable. I told him he should come to our Harry Potter readings sometime, and he said he would love to, except that it clashed with his Bible study group (Pat). Despite all his dorkiness, he managed to be funny and unassuming (Hoiland).
James and the others also proved to be a very good sport when I made a horrible vocabulary slip-up half way through dinner. I was remarking on how fancy the whole affair seemed, and how I was glad I hadn't worn pants (I wore a dress). As soon as I said this, everyone in earshot burst out laughing, and when he had recovered a bit, Henry reminded me that in British, "pants"= underwear, "trousers"= pants. So basically, I had just said that I was relieved I hadn't worn underwear to such a fancy event. I guess my Ole friends in France aren't the only ones dealing with language barriers. My mortification was short-lived, as we quickly moved on to other such vocabulary differences. My other favorite was "pudding." This was the advertised third course, and I was so excited at the prospect of chocolate custard-y stuff we think of as pudding. Alas, in British, pudding is a blanket term for any dessert item at all, not necessarily custard. It turned out good anyway, a sort of pink raspberry creme thing... trust me, it was delicious. And then there was coffee, and the little cubes of sugar I love so much. The tutors processed out again before anyone else was allowed to leave, and then everyone filed out, full of good food (for once) and good conversation. It was really nice to hang out with real British people. I don't usually get a lot of exposure, since all the 25 students at CMRS are American, and we have a tendency to go out in large numbers, for safety. Henry and his friends were really easy to talk to, and there was something in their way of interacting with each other that was so laid back, and non-frantic, it was a nice change of pace. I guess they've been used to writing tutorial papers all the time and being stressed out all term, so they just kind of go with the flow, and take time to enjoy formal dinners when they come along.
If I can wrangle another invitation, I will definitely go back to Formal Hall. I can't believe that happens every week and most of us don't even know about it. I've been told that some of the bigger colleges offer Formal Hall every day. When the tutors and big deal scholars processed in, and everyone was wearing their robes, I felt like I had been transported to another planet. It is just another example of the overwhelming sense of tradition that comes with Oxford. I mean, Olaf is old, and has its own traditions, but Oxford has been around since the 13th century. There were real live knights in shining armour riding around at that time! True, it wasn't exactly their heyday, but still! These are more than just traditions, they are practically religions! The real scholars of Oxford are foreign to me not just as British people, but as a different type of creature altogether. The ennobling aspect of academia is palpable here, and sometimes I really get hit over the head with it, like at Formal Hall. Going to Formal Hall and holding my own with Oxford students, even without a robe, made me realize, with a thrill of... horror?... excitement...? ..... that I am in. I am one of them, in a sense. Now that I have been initiated into the tradition, I guess it is up to me to decide how I truly feel about that, about Oxford academia in general. But more on that later. For now, I'm off to bed to read a Aelred's treatise 'On Spiritual Friendship.'
We arrived at the dining hall at 7:30 with a mass of other people. It was all lit up and warm, just as I described before. I sat down next to Henry's friend James, who turned out to be a hoot. Before we could talk too much, however, someone hit a gavel at the high table, and all the students stopped talking immediately, and stood up stick straight. Americans would never have been able to manage it. I had no idea what was going on. As I stood there, looking wide eyed at Henry across the table for instructions, a line of tutors began to process in behind me, with the headmaster taking up the rear. They were all decked out in full robed splendour, very silent and austere. When they reached the table, I bent my knees to sit, but James elbowed me not to. In a moment, someone at the high table began to say a very loud and forceful prayer in Latin (I was later told that he had a strong Scottish accent on top of the Latin, but I would never have been able to pick it out) We said "Amen" and sat down, and then things got much more casual. They brought us out some delicious minted pea soup with bread and butter, and then some sort of white fish on top of lentils, and finally dessert and coffee. Everyone looked so pretty in the candlelight, and the gentle hum of voices reverberated around the room, sort of lulling me into a good mood. The wine was passed around freely, and I tried some really excellent white stuff from Tuscany. The main entertainment for my meal, at least, was James, my neighbor. He reminded me of a combination of my Ole boys, only British: he is a maths major (Bjorn), and also an avid bird watcher (Ben). He was telling me how excited he was to spend he weekend in Jericho, the next town over, because there was some sort of rare pigeon there, that was supposed to have migrated to Japan, but flew West instead of East, and ended up in England. Apparently it has bird watchers all excited, he is going on a pilgrimage there tomorrow to see the rare pigeon in residence, I thought that was pretty remarkable. I told him he should come to our Harry Potter readings sometime, and he said he would love to, except that it clashed with his Bible study group (Pat). Despite all his dorkiness, he managed to be funny and unassuming (Hoiland).
James and the others also proved to be a very good sport when I made a horrible vocabulary slip-up half way through dinner. I was remarking on how fancy the whole affair seemed, and how I was glad I hadn't worn pants (I wore a dress). As soon as I said this, everyone in earshot burst out laughing, and when he had recovered a bit, Henry reminded me that in British, "pants"= underwear, "trousers"= pants. So basically, I had just said that I was relieved I hadn't worn underwear to such a fancy event. I guess my Ole friends in France aren't the only ones dealing with language barriers. My mortification was short-lived, as we quickly moved on to other such vocabulary differences. My other favorite was "pudding." This was the advertised third course, and I was so excited at the prospect of chocolate custard-y stuff we think of as pudding. Alas, in British, pudding is a blanket term for any dessert item at all, not necessarily custard. It turned out good anyway, a sort of pink raspberry creme thing... trust me, it was delicious. And then there was coffee, and the little cubes of sugar I love so much. The tutors processed out again before anyone else was allowed to leave, and then everyone filed out, full of good food (for once) and good conversation. It was really nice to hang out with real British people. I don't usually get a lot of exposure, since all the 25 students at CMRS are American, and we have a tendency to go out in large numbers, for safety. Henry and his friends were really easy to talk to, and there was something in their way of interacting with each other that was so laid back, and non-frantic, it was a nice change of pace. I guess they've been used to writing tutorial papers all the time and being stressed out all term, so they just kind of go with the flow, and take time to enjoy formal dinners when they come along.
If I can wrangle another invitation, I will definitely go back to Formal Hall. I can't believe that happens every week and most of us don't even know about it. I've been told that some of the bigger colleges offer Formal Hall every day. When the tutors and big deal scholars processed in, and everyone was wearing their robes, I felt like I had been transported to another planet. It is just another example of the overwhelming sense of tradition that comes with Oxford. I mean, Olaf is old, and has its own traditions, but Oxford has been around since the 13th century. There were real live knights in shining armour riding around at that time! True, it wasn't exactly their heyday, but still! These are more than just traditions, they are practically religions! The real scholars of Oxford are foreign to me not just as British people, but as a different type of creature altogether. The ennobling aspect of academia is palpable here, and sometimes I really get hit over the head with it, like at Formal Hall. Going to Formal Hall and holding my own with Oxford students, even without a robe, made me realize, with a thrill of... horror?... excitement...? ..... that I am in. I am one of them, in a sense. Now that I have been initiated into the tradition, I guess it is up to me to decide how I truly feel about that, about Oxford academia in general. But more on that later. For now, I'm off to bed to read a Aelred's treatise 'On Spiritual Friendship.'
Sunday, February 13, 2011
It is almost like you're there...
Quest for the Holy Grail, anyone?
Alright, this is kind of a lazy, sucker post. I really want to post about being attacked by ghosts on Queen's Lane (an episode from a few weeks ago) but I won't have time at least until Wednesday. In the meantime, I feel I have finally written a paper that I am sort of proud of ... its my favorite topic so far, for my Romance tutorial:
'The Quest of the Holy Grail is pivoted on the doctrine of asceticism, its centre is a mystic vision of man and the world' - how far did the author of the Quest succeed in his attempt to bring this religious theme into the framework of the Arthurian Romance?
I'll just copy and paste the end result below, so you can get a sense of what a typical paper is like. For now I am off to the Radcliffe Camera (beautiful round reading room for undergrads, google image it, because I am not allowed to take pictures!) This time, I will remember to bring my headphones so I can listen to Biebl's Ave Maria sung by a St. Olaf men's choir from the 1990's. Its the perfect soundtrack for researching the Holy Grail in Oxford.
'The Quest of the Holy Grail is pivoted on the doctrine of asceticism, its centre is a mystic vision of man and the world' - how far did the author of the Quest succeed in his attempt to bring this religious theme into the framework of the Arthurian Romance?
I'll just copy and paste the end result below, so you can get a sense of what a typical paper is like. For now I am off to the Radcliffe Camera (beautiful round reading room for undergrads, google image it, because I am not allowed to take pictures!) This time, I will remember to bring my headphones so I can listen to Biebl's Ave Maria sung by a St. Olaf men's choir from the 1990's. Its the perfect soundtrack for researching the Holy Grail in Oxford.
A Saint Among Knights
While the Arthurian romances has always maintained a symbiotic relationship with Christianity, The Quest of the Holy Grail, the third romance of the Vulgate Cycle, comes closer to melding the two worlds than any other of the Grail romances. The anonymous author uses the Arthurian legend as a framework for his depiction of various aspects of the Christian tradition, with a focus on asceticism and the beatific vision. R.S. Loomis is just one of many critics who support this reading over one that glorifies secular knighthood. He states that the author’s goal is to depict ideal Christian life under the guise of a quest with chivalric characteristics.[1] While many critics have succeeded in expounding the Christian symbolism which pervades the text, the effect the one genre has on the other remains largely unexplored. The Arthurian romance is necessarily fraught with Christian influences and structured according to the Christian culture of the 12th century, yet it remains a strictly secular genre, set on depicting the virtues of those who fight, not those who pray. Even when those who fight are glorified for their piety and Christian virtue, they still belong to the secular world, and usually are not judged by the same yardstick used to measure a monk. That said, the author of the Quest projects Christian means (asceticism) and ends (mystic visions) onto the typical chivalric journey, totally changing the rules and altering the romantic framing device. The similarities between the callings of the secular knight and the celestial monk are unquestioned and even made interchangeable; whether or not the Christian content of the Quest warps or fortifies the framework of the typical Arthurian romance is yet to be determined.
There is much to commend the romance as the most likely candidate to play host to such strong Christian themes. The quest of the generic romance is fundamentally similar to the spiritual pilgrimage described by many religious authors and mystics. The doctrines of Bernard of Clairvaux offer a particularly illustrative example; according to St. Bernard, any pilgrim aspiring to a mystical union with God must go through a series of purifying rituals. Likewise, a knight aspiring to reach the pinnacle of knighthood must prove his worthiness with adventures. In these adventure, the knight usually ascends from brutish to refined, learning to love and serve first the self, and then others. The clergy would be familiar with this Platonic pattern; religious men are usually described on a spectrum ranging from those who are earth-bound in their love to those who sacrifice themselves completely for the love of God. In this Christian to chivalric parallel, a beatific goal of the mystics is obtained by a series of steps that is very similar to a knight’s coming of age.
Likewise, the stages of chivalric quests are episodic trials meant to test and strengthen the chivalric values, as though in a fire. Further comparison yields even more parallels; the crucial lord and vassal relationship and even the devotional element of courtly love translate well from a secular, chivalric setting to one in which God is the ultimate overlord, or the ultimate beloved. The mystic is driven to submit himself to God, while the knight shows the same self-surrender, but for the sake of serving secular lords; God may be his inspiration, but it is almost always a secular authority who completes the knighting ceremony, thereby deserving the knight’s primary allegiance. These basic likenesses are intensified by their adherence to a Platonic structure, in which piety and knighthood can exist on different levels. These links between the two traditions make the romance a likely nest for a deeply Biblical thesis.
Although there is a clear natural compatibility between Christian traditions and romances in general, Matarasso states that the Quest is unique in that it is the only romance that calls for direct comparison with the Bible. It is true that the Quest borrows plots, themes, and even characters from the Bible more openly than any of the romances. The asceticism of the three Grail knights is unlike the physical rigors secular knights undertake; the Grail knights must prove themselves spiritually in a distinctly Christian way that differs from the vague nobility of spirit enveloping the secular knight; the goals of their quest are not earthly goals, but celestial ones. Barber was correct when he stated that the Quest leaves behind the orthodox world of romance.[2] The question now is whether the Arthurian romance is not warped by its manipulation for such extreme uses. The knight may be comparable to the mystic, but does Galahad’s role as a Christ figure undermine the secular duties of a knight? Is the romance’s adventure of self-realization compromised by the Christian way of learning, in which all meaning is explained matter-of-factly by omniscient hermits? And finally, does the mystical love of God humiliate the romance’s major element, courtly love? The Quest itself offers many illustrations of the Christian message’s effect on the role of the knight, the nature of chivalric adventure, and the nobility of courtly love.
When examining the transformation of the knight’s role in the Quest, the most obvious character to analyze is Sir Galahad. Although Galahad is almost universally viewed as some sort of Christ figure, the detailed readings of his character are varied. Matarasso sees two distinct threads in his character, one of a Christ figure, totally incompatible with the role of a typical knight, but also a model of any terrestrial-bound soul’s journey to God.[3] Other critics are less flexible with their classifications, and have amassed a large volume of examples to support Galahad’s role as more of a paragon of Christianity rather than of chivalry. Although Matarasso warns against excessive allegorizing of this text, which normally expounds itself quite efficiently by way of hermits and recluses, she is the first to offer a list of parallels between Galahad and Christ, or his worldly ancestors.[4] Galahad’s physical and personality traits mirror those of the boy King David; his rejection of arms at Arthur’s court is a metaphorical statement against the Old Law. Parallels are even drawn between the mysterious man who leads him into Arthur’s court and John the Baptist.[5] Loomis offers even more comparisons, including Galahad’s predestined arrival, messianic function, and his liberation of the Castle of Maidens.[6] These are just a portion of the list of similarities that have been drawn up between Galahad and Christ. Even his name compares him to the redeemer. In many ways, it is Galahad’s character in the Quest that forever changes the role of the knight from an unquestioned hero to a self-doubting pilgrim on a horse.
Although there are many episodes in which Galahad overcomes some darkness or liberates some land from the unfaithful, none of these endeavors are undertaken for the sake of proving himself. He was proven almost immediately after he was knighted, just by fact that his coming was predestined. The Seat of Danger and the test of the sword in the stone both show that he is already the best knight by worldly standards. These instances are in addition to the maiden who arrives after Galahad draws the sword from the stone to proclaim point blank that Galahad has usurped Lancelot’s worldly title. Barber makes the excellent point that Galahad is already a finished product almost the moment he walks onto the scene. He has no place in the world of chivalry, because knighthood implies a spiritual coming of age; the knighthood of the romantic epic is a journey that ends with adulthood. Although he is young in years, Galahad is already fully mature in all the necessary respects. In his comparison with the other Grail knights, Barber concludes that Percival, Lancelot and Bors are more sympathetic and relatable, and therefore more accurately illustrate the true knight, even though they technically rank beneath Galahad.[7]
While Galahad can be classified as a chevalerie celestiel, the others are incapable of rising to his level, and must remain chevalerie terriene.[8] This is not necessarily any fault of their own; after all, they were not predestined to be messianic figures. Their names were not written on the Seat of Danger. That is why the Quest’s glorification of Galahad is so distorting; other knights may be expected to achieve the same spiritual worthiness as Galahad, yet this is impossible, mostly because of the incompatibility of the two designations, best chevalerie terriene and chevalerie celestiel. They are exclusive titles. Galahad’s predetermined perfection makes it unnecessary for him to undertake the typical quests of self-realization, while the other knight’s flaws necessitate that they complete that same type of quest. Without Galahad’s natural (or unnatural) lack of sin, however, they literally can never supersede him in this mystical/chivalric hierarchy. In this case, Galahad and the others champion two different types of knighthood, (it may be debated whether Glahad’s type of knighthood is really knighthood or mysticism masquerading). Barber astutely suggests that Galahad is the only member of Arthur’s court to actually seek the Grail; Lancelot, Bors, and Percival are actually just seeking to be like Galahad.[9]
The different goals of the chevalerie celestiel and the chevalerie terriene imply that they have different types of adventures as well. In her notes on the text, Matarasso spins out the concept of the Arthurian “adventure” in an effort to show how the author of The Quest alters the basic pattern:
There is much to commend the romance as the most likely candidate to play host to such strong Christian themes. The quest of the generic romance is fundamentally similar to the spiritual pilgrimage described by many religious authors and mystics. The doctrines of Bernard of Clairvaux offer a particularly illustrative example; according to St. Bernard, any pilgrim aspiring to a mystical union with God must go through a series of purifying rituals. Likewise, a knight aspiring to reach the pinnacle of knighthood must prove his worthiness with adventures. In these adventure, the knight usually ascends from brutish to refined, learning to love and serve first the self, and then others. The clergy would be familiar with this Platonic pattern; religious men are usually described on a spectrum ranging from those who are earth-bound in their love to those who sacrifice themselves completely for the love of God. In this Christian to chivalric parallel, a beatific goal of the mystics is obtained by a series of steps that is very similar to a knight’s coming of age.
Likewise, the stages of chivalric quests are episodic trials meant to test and strengthen the chivalric values, as though in a fire. Further comparison yields even more parallels; the crucial lord and vassal relationship and even the devotional element of courtly love translate well from a secular, chivalric setting to one in which God is the ultimate overlord, or the ultimate beloved. The mystic is driven to submit himself to God, while the knight shows the same self-surrender, but for the sake of serving secular lords; God may be his inspiration, but it is almost always a secular authority who completes the knighting ceremony, thereby deserving the knight’s primary allegiance. These basic likenesses are intensified by their adherence to a Platonic structure, in which piety and knighthood can exist on different levels. These links between the two traditions make the romance a likely nest for a deeply Biblical thesis.
Although there is a clear natural compatibility between Christian traditions and romances in general, Matarasso states that the Quest is unique in that it is the only romance that calls for direct comparison with the Bible. It is true that the Quest borrows plots, themes, and even characters from the Bible more openly than any of the romances. The asceticism of the three Grail knights is unlike the physical rigors secular knights undertake; the Grail knights must prove themselves spiritually in a distinctly Christian way that differs from the vague nobility of spirit enveloping the secular knight; the goals of their quest are not earthly goals, but celestial ones. Barber was correct when he stated that the Quest leaves behind the orthodox world of romance.[2] The question now is whether the Arthurian romance is not warped by its manipulation for such extreme uses. The knight may be comparable to the mystic, but does Galahad’s role as a Christ figure undermine the secular duties of a knight? Is the romance’s adventure of self-realization compromised by the Christian way of learning, in which all meaning is explained matter-of-factly by omniscient hermits? And finally, does the mystical love of God humiliate the romance’s major element, courtly love? The Quest itself offers many illustrations of the Christian message’s effect on the role of the knight, the nature of chivalric adventure, and the nobility of courtly love.
When examining the transformation of the knight’s role in the Quest, the most obvious character to analyze is Sir Galahad. Although Galahad is almost universally viewed as some sort of Christ figure, the detailed readings of his character are varied. Matarasso sees two distinct threads in his character, one of a Christ figure, totally incompatible with the role of a typical knight, but also a model of any terrestrial-bound soul’s journey to God.[3] Other critics are less flexible with their classifications, and have amassed a large volume of examples to support Galahad’s role as more of a paragon of Christianity rather than of chivalry. Although Matarasso warns against excessive allegorizing of this text, which normally expounds itself quite efficiently by way of hermits and recluses, she is the first to offer a list of parallels between Galahad and Christ, or his worldly ancestors.[4] Galahad’s physical and personality traits mirror those of the boy King David; his rejection of arms at Arthur’s court is a metaphorical statement against the Old Law. Parallels are even drawn between the mysterious man who leads him into Arthur’s court and John the Baptist.[5] Loomis offers even more comparisons, including Galahad’s predestined arrival, messianic function, and his liberation of the Castle of Maidens.[6] These are just a portion of the list of similarities that have been drawn up between Galahad and Christ. Even his name compares him to the redeemer. In many ways, it is Galahad’s character in the Quest that forever changes the role of the knight from an unquestioned hero to a self-doubting pilgrim on a horse.
Although there are many episodes in which Galahad overcomes some darkness or liberates some land from the unfaithful, none of these endeavors are undertaken for the sake of proving himself. He was proven almost immediately after he was knighted, just by fact that his coming was predestined. The Seat of Danger and the test of the sword in the stone both show that he is already the best knight by worldly standards. These instances are in addition to the maiden who arrives after Galahad draws the sword from the stone to proclaim point blank that Galahad has usurped Lancelot’s worldly title. Barber makes the excellent point that Galahad is already a finished product almost the moment he walks onto the scene. He has no place in the world of chivalry, because knighthood implies a spiritual coming of age; the knighthood of the romantic epic is a journey that ends with adulthood. Although he is young in years, Galahad is already fully mature in all the necessary respects. In his comparison with the other Grail knights, Barber concludes that Percival, Lancelot and Bors are more sympathetic and relatable, and therefore more accurately illustrate the true knight, even though they technically rank beneath Galahad.[7]
While Galahad can be classified as a chevalerie celestiel, the others are incapable of rising to his level, and must remain chevalerie terriene.[8] This is not necessarily any fault of their own; after all, they were not predestined to be messianic figures. Their names were not written on the Seat of Danger. That is why the Quest’s glorification of Galahad is so distorting; other knights may be expected to achieve the same spiritual worthiness as Galahad, yet this is impossible, mostly because of the incompatibility of the two designations, best chevalerie terriene and chevalerie celestiel. They are exclusive titles. Galahad’s predetermined perfection makes it unnecessary for him to undertake the typical quests of self-realization, while the other knight’s flaws necessitate that they complete that same type of quest. Without Galahad’s natural (or unnatural) lack of sin, however, they literally can never supersede him in this mystical/chivalric hierarchy. In this case, Galahad and the others champion two different types of knighthood, (it may be debated whether Glahad’s type of knighthood is really knighthood or mysticism masquerading). Barber astutely suggests that Galahad is the only member of Arthur’s court to actually seek the Grail; Lancelot, Bors, and Percival are actually just seeking to be like Galahad.[9]
The different goals of the chevalerie celestiel and the chevalerie terriene imply that they have different types of adventures as well. In her notes on the text, Matarasso spins out the concept of the Arthurian “adventure” in an effort to show how the author of The Quest alters the basic pattern:
In a general way the adventure represents the random, the gratuitous, the unpredictable element in life; often it is the challenge which causes a man to measure himself against standards more than human, to gamble life for honor or both for love. To this the author of the Quest adds a further dimension. For him the adventure is above all God working and manifesting Himself in the physical world. To accept an adventure is to accept an encounter with a force which is in the proper sense of the word supernatural , an encounter which is always perilous for the sinner or the man of little faith and much presumption.[10]
Matarasso’s distinction between normal romantic adventures and those presented in the Quest is an important one, as it completely alters the dynamic of the Arthurian romance. In the Quest, we see that Galahad does undertake many adventures, knowing that they were manifestations of Providence. Although he has a lot at stake in case of his failure, there is little doubt of his ever failing. His adventures are not so much adventures in the Arthurian sense, but chores that he alone can perform due to his singular status as the messianic knight. Strangely, it is the other knights whose Christian-flavored adventures are more intensive tests of spiritual fortitude. This can be seen with Perceval’s grappling with lust and the devil on a lonely island. Lancelot’s constant struggle with his great sin with the Queen, and Bors’ choice between saving his brother’s life and a maiden’s virginity are other prime examples of the tests of faith for the non-Galahads of the round table; they meet with mixed success, and none come close to being worthy of Galahad’s eventual mystic vision of the Grail. As much as Galahad is exalted as the ultimate knight of Christ, his adventures are painless when compared to those of the other Grail knights: claiming swords and shields that have been destined for him for generations sounds more like running errands than achieving chivalric or especially pious deeds. By normal romance standards, Galahad, as one who cannot fail, takes few risks. It is the other knights who give the Grail quest the good Arthurian-effort, and yet are frustrated by their irredeemably fallen state. In this way, the unrealistic role model of Galahad diminishes the self-esteem and honor usually earned by the Arthurian adventure.
Just as courtly love lies at the center of each good Arthurian romance, so the love of God is at the heart of the Quest. The disparity between these two types of love is perhaps the most problematic tension in the transition from Arthurian romance to Christian romance. Matarasso discusses how the tension between the sin of lust and the virtue of virginity had become a hot topic in the romances of Tristan and Isolde, and also in the earlier Lancelot and Guinevere stories. The authors of these romances and their continuations had worked hard to reconcile adultery, courtly life, and the need to preserve the knight’s virtue in his amorous affairs. The general solution was to elevate the adulterous affair to a quasi-sacramental status, proving that the love between couples such as Lancelot and Guinevere was so strong as to supersede the sin it naturally implied. In these most recent romances, the love between courtly lovers was so passionate, so sacrosanct, that it would have been mystical had the beloved been the Godhead, and not a mortal woman. According to the latest trends of romance, adulterous courtly love could indeed be ennobling, and in fact, it could be argued that Lancelot’s love for Guinevere enabled and inspired him to achieve his former status as the best knight in the world. Matarasso argues that the highly Christianized standards presented by the Quest not only change these rules, but humiliate the efforts of previous authors to validate adulterous affairs.[11] Galahad is the central figure in this humiliation process, first by his indifference to amorous relationships with women, and second by setting the example of loving God before all else. These practices seem peevish not because Arthur’s knights are irredeemably lustful scoundrels, quite the contrary! Like Galahad, Lancelot and Tristan offer models for how to love God to the best of one’s ability, with the limitation that their model is restricted by their acceptance of man’s fallen status in the cosmos. In the courtly world, it is almost taken for granted that knights are fallen, and will inevitably fall again to sin by lust. Tristan and Lancelot’s stories have actually taken this fact and worked to make the sin of lust as inoffensive to God as possible. This is achieved through the intricate emotional and moral understandings of courtly love in literature; a carnal affair can reach sacramental status, like the love between Tristan and Isolde in Gottfried von Strassburg’s version of the story. Galahad’s purity makes them all look like self-justifying fools in comparison, especially Lancelot who went from being the best knight in the world to a failure almost overnight. This can be the only expected result of placing a saint in the midst of emotionally-tame warriors, which is basically the role of the knight up until the Quest.
After considering the success of the Quest on an Arthurian scale, it would seem that the potential for a great relationship between knighthood and sainthood is ruined by the attempt to actualize the marriage of the two value systems. What we see from a comparison between Galahad and the other knights is that even the very best of the secular knights are reduced to secondary hero status by the introduction of a messianic knight. In many ways, it is unfair of the author of the Quest to compare the heroes of a single genre to a type of world-saviour. Other romances and criticisms have demonstrated that the courtly world is as far removed from reality as heaven. The Quest attempts to fill the mold of the Arthurian world with Christian ideals, but the effect is only to warp the shell, and forever humiliate the genre as inferior to one which would be better set in the celestial world, not the Arthurian one.
Just as courtly love lies at the center of each good Arthurian romance, so the love of God is at the heart of the Quest. The disparity between these two types of love is perhaps the most problematic tension in the transition from Arthurian romance to Christian romance. Matarasso discusses how the tension between the sin of lust and the virtue of virginity had become a hot topic in the romances of Tristan and Isolde, and also in the earlier Lancelot and Guinevere stories. The authors of these romances and their continuations had worked hard to reconcile adultery, courtly life, and the need to preserve the knight’s virtue in his amorous affairs. The general solution was to elevate the adulterous affair to a quasi-sacramental status, proving that the love between couples such as Lancelot and Guinevere was so strong as to supersede the sin it naturally implied. In these most recent romances, the love between courtly lovers was so passionate, so sacrosanct, that it would have been mystical had the beloved been the Godhead, and not a mortal woman. According to the latest trends of romance, adulterous courtly love could indeed be ennobling, and in fact, it could be argued that Lancelot’s love for Guinevere enabled and inspired him to achieve his former status as the best knight in the world. Matarasso argues that the highly Christianized standards presented by the Quest not only change these rules, but humiliate the efforts of previous authors to validate adulterous affairs.[11] Galahad is the central figure in this humiliation process, first by his indifference to amorous relationships with women, and second by setting the example of loving God before all else. These practices seem peevish not because Arthur’s knights are irredeemably lustful scoundrels, quite the contrary! Like Galahad, Lancelot and Tristan offer models for how to love God to the best of one’s ability, with the limitation that their model is restricted by their acceptance of man’s fallen status in the cosmos. In the courtly world, it is almost taken for granted that knights are fallen, and will inevitably fall again to sin by lust. Tristan and Lancelot’s stories have actually taken this fact and worked to make the sin of lust as inoffensive to God as possible. This is achieved through the intricate emotional and moral understandings of courtly love in literature; a carnal affair can reach sacramental status, like the love between Tristan and Isolde in Gottfried von Strassburg’s version of the story. Galahad’s purity makes them all look like self-justifying fools in comparison, especially Lancelot who went from being the best knight in the world to a failure almost overnight. This can be the only expected result of placing a saint in the midst of emotionally-tame warriors, which is basically the role of the knight up until the Quest.
After considering the success of the Quest on an Arthurian scale, it would seem that the potential for a great relationship between knighthood and sainthood is ruined by the attempt to actualize the marriage of the two value systems. What we see from a comparison between Galahad and the other knights is that even the very best of the secular knights are reduced to secondary hero status by the introduction of a messianic knight. In many ways, it is unfair of the author of the Quest to compare the heroes of a single genre to a type of world-saviour. Other romances and criticisms have demonstrated that the courtly world is as far removed from reality as heaven. The Quest attempts to fill the mold of the Arthurian world with Christian ideals, but the effect is only to warp the shell, and forever humiliate the genre as inferior to one which would be better set in the celestial world, not the Arthurian one.
[1] Roger Sherman Loomis, The Grail: From Celtic Myth to Christian Symbol (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), 179.
[2] Richard W. Barber, The Holy Grail: Imagination and Belief (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), 111.
[3] Pauline Matarasso, A Redemption of Chivalry: A Study of the ‘Quest del Saint Graal’ (Geneva: Droz, 1979), 38.
[4] Perhaps it is only fair to note that one of Matarasso’s stated goal is to show that allegory is in the eye of the beholder, not necessarily that all allegory is worthless. If she offers a long list of allegories found in The Quest, some of which are sketchy at best, she is merely being thorough with her evidence. See Matarasso, preface and 41-43.
[5] Matarasso, 38-50.
[6] Loomis, 177.
[7] Barber, 111.
[8] For chevalerie terriene and celestiel, see Matarasso, 43.
[9] Ibid.
[10] See The Quest for the Holy Grail, translated by Pauline Matarasso, Penguin Classics (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969), endnote #44.
[11] Matarasso, 145-147. See also Loomis, 177.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
12th Century Disenchantment and 21st Century Student Riots
Today I learned the origin of the phrase "we are not amused." When Lewis Carroll (a math tutor here at Oxford) first published Alice in Wonderland, the Queen loved it so much she sent him a letter insisting that he send her the next book he published, meaning of course, that she wanted the Alice sequel. He obliged her to a T and sent her a textbook on linear algebra. Soon after, he received a note: "We are not amused." Brilliant.
I am having a bit of a sad week because I am learning all about courtly love. In this case learning has rather disenchanting effects. Professor Georges Duby (uninspired, hateful man) takes the cynical view that courtly love was actually an educational game to train men in the art of vassalage. In this sort of training the lady fair served as a kind of dummy, an expendable trial run for young noblemen to learn submission and self-control. What really mattered in the end was that they were good vassals to their overlords. I suppose I should take it as a relief that courtly love turned out to be only a utilitarian social exercise. Its all a little sick when you think about it. Still, can't help being a little put out. Maybe my term paper on Aelard's 'On Spiritual Friendship' will make me feel better. Or maybe it will just want to spend an entire evening mocking Bernard of Clairveaux. Wretched, wretched man.
In other news, the students are striking again. I think it has something to do with the exorbitant dues required to get into the Oxford Student Union. When I went running past the Bodely today, there were dozens of them hanging on the iron gates, chanting something and waving pamphlets. Their anger made their accents thicker, however, and I couldn't quite catch what they were saying. A dozen policemen stood around in yellow vests in case they got out of hand. I wonder if it is worth if for them to get so angry over almost nothing at all - if they feel more alive because they can scream and hang off of 500 year old gates and light their own pamphlets on fire in an ironic manifestation of their indignation. Chivalry and courtly love were constructions to train and occupy the privileged youth of the 12th and 13th century. I wonder if riots are the bastardized 21st century equivalent. I hope it doesn't come to tearing up pavement stones. Such base behaviour is usually reserved for the French, or so I'm told.
Must finish reading The Legend of the Grail. Perceval is not done being idiotic yet. Cheers.
I am having a bit of a sad week because I am learning all about courtly love. In this case learning has rather disenchanting effects. Professor Georges Duby (uninspired, hateful man) takes the cynical view that courtly love was actually an educational game to train men in the art of vassalage. In this sort of training the lady fair served as a kind of dummy, an expendable trial run for young noblemen to learn submission and self-control. What really mattered in the end was that they were good vassals to their overlords. I suppose I should take it as a relief that courtly love turned out to be only a utilitarian social exercise. Its all a little sick when you think about it. Still, can't help being a little put out. Maybe my term paper on Aelard's 'On Spiritual Friendship' will make me feel better. Or maybe it will just want to spend an entire evening mocking Bernard of Clairveaux. Wretched, wretched man.
In other news, the students are striking again. I think it has something to do with the exorbitant dues required to get into the Oxford Student Union. When I went running past the Bodely today, there were dozens of them hanging on the iron gates, chanting something and waving pamphlets. Their anger made their accents thicker, however, and I couldn't quite catch what they were saying. A dozen policemen stood around in yellow vests in case they got out of hand. I wonder if it is worth if for them to get so angry over almost nothing at all - if they feel more alive because they can scream and hang off of 500 year old gates and light their own pamphlets on fire in an ironic manifestation of their indignation. Chivalry and courtly love were constructions to train and occupy the privileged youth of the 12th and 13th century. I wonder if riots are the bastardized 21st century equivalent. I hope it doesn't come to tearing up pavement stones. Such base behaviour is usually reserved for the French, or so I'm told.
Must finish reading The Legend of the Grail. Perceval is not done being idiotic yet. Cheers.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Teatime
It is Saturday! Of course, this doesn't mean very much considering how little class time I have during the week, but there is something special about the day anyway. I am going out tonight for a very fancy grownup cocktail at the Grand Cafe. I think there's one with Prosecco and peach puree in it, but I forget what it is called. I am wearing fancy dangly grown up earrings and am very excited to spend a night pretending to be sophisticated. It will be nice to get out of my room, where I have spent the majority of the day reading about the "12th century renaissance," which I am starting to think is a figment of 20th century historians' imaginations.
One thing about going out for cocktails means I will have no more weekend allowance to go out for tea tomorrow. Tea (proper noun) has become a Sunday ritual for me (if something can be made into a ritual on such short notice, anyway). This seems like a very appropriate juncture for me to explain about teatime in England. Where to start? In America, we think of "teatime" as 4:00, but it could be anywhere between 2:00 and 5:00 here. Most cafes and hotel lounges serve afternoon tea as an unofficial meal. It works out well for me, because St. Peter's only opens for brunch on the weekends and my stomach starts rumbling loud enough to attract annoyed glares from people in the library around 3:00. I am trying to find the best tea place here before Pol and Katie come to visit in March so I'll know where to take them, so that means I've gone to four venues already. The best place for atmosphere is the Grand Cafe (same locale for cocktails tonight, it turns into a lounge after 7:00), but if its quality scones you're after, you want to go to the Rose, or the Queen's coffee house. Also of note is the lounge at the Bank Hotel on High Street, but its a little too fancy for everyday tea. Once you go in and choose an appropriate window seat, a well dressed British man of uncertain sexuality will approach you and take your order. He is guaranteed to have well-gelled hair, pointy shoes and a refreshingly shy demeanor. Pub boys are overbearing and wink a lot. Tea boys are shy and nice. There's nothing bad about that, by the way, I'm just noting the details for your enjoyment. I've never had a female waiter or barrista, which I think is a little weird, but I digress.
There are three main categories of tea you can choose from (from which you can choose, depending on how you like your prepositions), no matter where you go:
Tea Cakes: if you ask for "tea cakes" you will get a personal pot of tea, and a plate with two tea cakes, which are kind of a mix between bread and scones. They are wide like hamburger buns but more delicious and sweet, and always have raisins. They are served toasted with butter and jam on the side. If you're thinking cakes as in dessert cakes with frosting, think again. This is the cheapest, and in many ways most satisfying tea.
Cream Tea: this is the best option, hands down. You get your requisite pot of tea (I like English breakfast with milk, but there's no point in adding sugar unless it is in cube form). Instead of tea cakes on a plate, you get two hot scones on a fancy schmancy two tier tray, the top tier being occupied by a dish of raspberry preserves and liberal amounts of clotted cream. At the Grand Cafe they put a few strawberries on top, and it is all so pretty and delicious, you could die from over-stimulation. The scones may or may not have raisins, but its not like I would complain either way. The scones are just the right size so you can eat two of them and not look outrageously fat in the attempt. My motto with cream tea is, "let no clotted cream go to waste."
High Tea: this is the only kind I haven't tried yet, mostly because it would be obscene to order and entire high tea for yourself. High tea comes with everything in the cream tea, with an extra tier of finger sandwiches and mini little pastry type things. This one is really a meal. I've never had it, but I've seen it a few tables over before. Basically to die for.
Unlike Americans, the British take their time in cafes. They might expect you to sit with your cream tea for over an hour. They were confused when I asked for my bill after sitting there for 30 minutes after I had finished my scones. People sit and talk to each other for a long time, they're in no hurry, its really nice. Old professor types sit by themselves in the corner with the remains of a piece of cheesecake in front of them and a newspaper spread all over the place. Tea is my favorite part of the weekend. I keep thinking how it would be nice if I had my Oles there to play bannagrams, but perhaps the British would frown upon that. Last week I was walking back from the Queen's Coffeehouse at twilight (good hot scones, bad tea presentation) and I had the most terrifying adventure when I tried to take a shortcut.... but that will have to wait, I have to go get all dolled up before I go out (ie the ladies next door and their makeup cases insist on having their way with me). Cheers!
One thing about going out for cocktails means I will have no more weekend allowance to go out for tea tomorrow. Tea (proper noun) has become a Sunday ritual for me (if something can be made into a ritual on such short notice, anyway). This seems like a very appropriate juncture for me to explain about teatime in England. Where to start? In America, we think of "teatime" as 4:00, but it could be anywhere between 2:00 and 5:00 here. Most cafes and hotel lounges serve afternoon tea as an unofficial meal. It works out well for me, because St. Peter's only opens for brunch on the weekends and my stomach starts rumbling loud enough to attract annoyed glares from people in the library around 3:00. I am trying to find the best tea place here before Pol and Katie come to visit in March so I'll know where to take them, so that means I've gone to four venues already. The best place for atmosphere is the Grand Cafe (same locale for cocktails tonight, it turns into a lounge after 7:00), but if its quality scones you're after, you want to go to the Rose, or the Queen's coffee house. Also of note is the lounge at the Bank Hotel on High Street, but its a little too fancy for everyday tea. Once you go in and choose an appropriate window seat, a well dressed British man of uncertain sexuality will approach you and take your order. He is guaranteed to have well-gelled hair, pointy shoes and a refreshingly shy demeanor. Pub boys are overbearing and wink a lot. Tea boys are shy and nice. There's nothing bad about that, by the way, I'm just noting the details for your enjoyment. I've never had a female waiter or barrista, which I think is a little weird, but I digress.
There are three main categories of tea you can choose from (from which you can choose, depending on how you like your prepositions), no matter where you go:
Tea Cakes: if you ask for "tea cakes" you will get a personal pot of tea, and a plate with two tea cakes, which are kind of a mix between bread and scones. They are wide like hamburger buns but more delicious and sweet, and always have raisins. They are served toasted with butter and jam on the side. If you're thinking cakes as in dessert cakes with frosting, think again. This is the cheapest, and in many ways most satisfying tea.
Cream Tea: this is the best option, hands down. You get your requisite pot of tea (I like English breakfast with milk, but there's no point in adding sugar unless it is in cube form). Instead of tea cakes on a plate, you get two hot scones on a fancy schmancy two tier tray, the top tier being occupied by a dish of raspberry preserves and liberal amounts of clotted cream. At the Grand Cafe they put a few strawberries on top, and it is all so pretty and delicious, you could die from over-stimulation. The scones may or may not have raisins, but its not like I would complain either way. The scones are just the right size so you can eat two of them and not look outrageously fat in the attempt. My motto with cream tea is, "let no clotted cream go to waste."
High Tea: this is the only kind I haven't tried yet, mostly because it would be obscene to order and entire high tea for yourself. High tea comes with everything in the cream tea, with an extra tier of finger sandwiches and mini little pastry type things. This one is really a meal. I've never had it, but I've seen it a few tables over before. Basically to die for.
Unlike Americans, the British take their time in cafes. They might expect you to sit with your cream tea for over an hour. They were confused when I asked for my bill after sitting there for 30 minutes after I had finished my scones. People sit and talk to each other for a long time, they're in no hurry, its really nice. Old professor types sit by themselves in the corner with the remains of a piece of cheesecake in front of them and a newspaper spread all over the place. Tea is my favorite part of the weekend. I keep thinking how it would be nice if I had my Oles there to play bannagrams, but perhaps the British would frown upon that. Last week I was walking back from the Queen's Coffeehouse at twilight (good hot scones, bad tea presentation) and I had the most terrifying adventure when I tried to take a shortcut.... but that will have to wait, I have to go get all dolled up before I go out (ie the ladies next door and their makeup cases insist on having their way with me). Cheers!
Friday, February 4, 2011
Writing a Tutorial Paper at Oxford
 |
| The scary bust in the Taylor Library. I think its eyes follow me. |
 |
| The Taylor library. |
 |
| The Taylor Library |
 |
| Research at sunrise |
 |
| Finishing up the paper at sundown |
 | ||||
| Bed by midnight - in scary bloodstained CMRS sheets. |
A Blustery Ramble of Epic Proportions, in Which Brenna and Laruen Play their First Game of Poohsticks
 |
| GNOME HOLE- so excited to have spotted this. |
 |
| Brenna and Lauren en route to Pooh Sticks bridge (note appropriate sticks in hand). |
 |
| Still roud the corner there may wait, a new road or a secret gate... |
 | |
| Their first game! Brenna's stick got drowned under the bridge, somehow.... |
 |
| Stately tree. Lots of these in the University Parks. |
 |
| Early flowers. |
 |
| We spent some quality time under this old tree, looking up into its branches (see picture below)with the wind roaring in our ears. Nothing banishes academic stress better.... |
 |
| Lying under the tree... the ground was only a little wet. Admire practical footwear. |
 |
| The view from under the tree. |
 |
| Pink blossoms! |
 |
| Snowdrops? Today is Friday, which means I absolutely do not do homework between lunch and dinner. It was a perfect windy day, and I decided to go on a "ramble" (walk) of epic proportions with my two new companions, Lauren and Brenna. I had been running in the parks, so I knew they were beautiful, but I had never taken time to go through them slowly and look closer. We bundled up against the wind (Minnesota-esque today) and grabbed our umbrellas, and set out across town for the parks. When we arrived by the front gate, we were greeted with expansive lawns of perfect green, and many diverging little paths, and gardens with some early, hearty flowers making an appearance. There were little mole holes all over the lawns, and a nearby group of cricket players were complaining bitterly about the mess they cause with their burrows. We walked all the way around the circumference, branching off on one end to get to the river. The girls had never even heard of Pooh Sticks, so of course we had to play. They picked lovely, distinguishable sticks, not like amaturs at all, and we dropped them into the river at the same time, rushing to the other side of the bridge to see whose stick would come out the other side first. We seemed to wait a long time. Brenna and Lauren kept leaning over the railing and wondering if their sticks had drowned. Finally Lauren's came out, easily recognized as the fattest, and then mine, bobbing along, covered in moss. Brenna's stick had been a big dense one with lots of little knobs, unfortunately it never made it out. We suspect that it was so dense it drowned somewhere under the bridge. But we played many more rounds and everyone won at least once. We took our time ambling back, stopping to try to climb a large green tree with low branches (and failling due to lack of upper body strength). We found a little clearing encircled by seven trees growing in a perfect ring. The inside was a carpet of yellow flowers. This arrangement excited much talk about witches' circles and we discussed the possibility of sneaking back at night to tell ghost stories there. Unfortunately, the gates lock at sundown, but it's nice to know people who are interested in that sort of thing anyway... We stopped for a long time under this one enormous old tree, whose trunk was covered in a fine green moss, and whose branches swept down to the ground like a willow. We were lying underneath, talking about boys (which seems to be the best way to bond with people here), and telling stories until we fell silent all at once. The roar of the wind was actually really relaxing, and I let the whole sensation of being swept away overtake me, and especially the stress of my tutorial this morning (it was the first time my tutor really disagreed with my thesis. I was just wrong about the Romance of the Rose ! The allegory was an extolling of courtly love, not a criticism! (apparently)- but he did allow that my incorrect thesis had been creatively and perhaps even artfully defended...) Tonight I am looking forward to more peace and quiet, since the majority of people are going out, and I am staying in. I might just write letters and eat crumpets and listen to the secret garden broadway soundtrack, or start reading the romance of the Grail I've been set for next week. Whatever I do, it will be low key and lovely, and I'll still have the sound of the wind in my ears. |
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Magic in My Mailbox
No no no! I am behind on my blogs. I keep meaning to do one on the ghost tour, part I and II, and another one on tea time (merits entire post to itself). Another experience worth sharing: "writing a tutorial paper at Oxford," sadly the execution of that last distracts me from actually blogging about it. Last night was the most academically stressful night yet. I had been reading and drawing up outlines all day for this paper that was due today: "To what extent was the rise of heresy a product of the Church's attempt to define and enforce orthodoxy (10th - 13th century)?" I am a little sleepy as a result, but the paper is in and, I think it was pretty good (the truth will hit me like a ton of bricks at my session tomorrow, no doubt).
Part of the reason I found the strength to carry on till the wee hours of the morning was because I knew that today was going to be a good day, and indeed it has been. I went and had fabulous tea at breakfast (and toast with honey... and an orange.... and some yogurt of the pink variety), then read a chapter on William the Marshal, who was supposed to be the ideal knight figure. He was a real person too, and the biographical poem about him is the earliest vernacular biography of a lay person! From the early 13th century! Whoa! The chapter I was reading was so good, it was attacking this French historian named Duby who apparently was an incurable idiot when it came to William the Marshal, and some of the zingers in his text were so good I couldn't help laughing out loud in the library, and got reproached by the impish librarian at St. Peter's (get this Carmen, her name is actually Marian. No joke). I went for a run (still no swan man) and ate some lunch, played some viola, read some of the Romance of the Rose, and here I am! ready for teatime. The fact that I have managed to squeeze in a run, some time on the viola, lots of tea, homework and laughing in the library makes it a fabulous day indeed. Days I don't have to write any papers are practically weekends, in fact, but better, because I still end up reading lots instead of feeling obliged to make an appearance at the pub (not bashing pubs, just the fact that you are deemed reclusive if you don't go. Indeed, humanity frequently gives such honorable establishments a bad name).
The more I think about it, the more I realize that today had everything it needed to be perfect. There was nothing left to be desired, not even the bad weather bothered me, it just meant I had an excuse to use my shockingly fashionable black umbrella (with ruffle). Alright, the dense fog is a bit much, and the fact that my heater is broken is a little depressing, and I could whine a little about how little sleep Oxford allows me... but all the little whiny bits make the good bits that much better, like how Ishmael describes being under the warm covers next to his new cannibal friend Queequeg: its no good being totally warm and cozy unless a tiny part of you is sticking out in the cold for contrast, like your nose, or one toe. So with these contrasting bits of discomfort, I really couldn't ask for better conditions for contentedness...and yet, there was more in store for me. When I got back from St. Peter's library and peeked in my little mail slot, I caught a glimpse of two beautiful letters, my address made out in two different, yet instantly recognizable hands. I gasped for joy and fumbled for my mail key, and Dr. Philpott cautiously asked me if I was alright as he passed me on the landing. Mail! glorious mail! Two letters at once is almost too much to handle, especailly when they're from good friends. I read one right away, and am squandering the other for when I've finished all my readings for the night. I passed one of the girls on the stairs (there are 62 between the ground floor and my bedroom) grinning like a maniac, and she was the second person to ask me if I was alright. "Just happyyyyy!!!!!" I said. She probably wanted to hit me, she looked grumpy, sort of like I felt last night 1,000 words into my paper. I would have wanted to hit me too.
So now I have this one unopened letter sitting on my desk, the thought of which forces me to smile, even when I try not to (especailly when I try not to). The other is laying open on my bed after having read it through a few times. I wonder at how such a small, 10 cent envelope can dispel such enormous and engulfing things as loneliness, despair, and exhaustion, and one hasn't even been opened yet. The mere knowledge that I have a letter waiting to open keeps me going, its a little like running a car on fumes. I spend the in between moments thinking about what would be the best time to open it... should I wait until I am in the pits of despair, and horde it? Should I read it just before I go to bed, as a reward for finishing all my homework? Should I save it till Friday when I am going to go get cream tea at the Grand Cafe (see next installment having to do with cream tea, among other varieties). I probably won't be able to last till Friday, although I do love reading letters in public, knowing that everyone around me is secretly jealous.
Letters are so amazingly wonderful. I get so much out of just staring at the handwriting on the fronts, and thinking about my friends or my sister as they sit at their desks in Mellby, or at the familiar table in the library, or on their French provincial couch with small demonic dog close at hand. I always like the way my roommate makes her letter g's. Every one of Julie's g's is like a little wave from the page, and the bedazzles on Guilaine's stationary makes me feel like she's winking up at me from the card in my hand. Bjorn's writing reminds me forcibly of the way he sits up perfectly straight in the library, doing math. It must be the way he's written my address neatly aligned on an imaginary left margin. All of these things set my dimples twitching. You guys are on every inch of the pieces of paper you send me, and the knowledge that your warm hand once moved across the page that I now hold in my hand, thousands of miles away, is like a little miracle for 98 cents (or however much an international stamp goes for these days). Its not just a piece of paper with some writing on it, its really a little piece of someone I miss. I hope I never have a lover as a pen pal. Even if he wrote dull letters, it might do me in just the same.
Reading over this blog again gives me a bad feeling, somehow... it makes me think of a chapter in Lewis' The Screwtape Letters. In this satirical* Christian commentary, the administrative staff in Hell are commenting on one little old lady who seems very humble, but really they are celebrating the fact that they are about to "get" her for their collection of souls in Hell. This old lady's sin, as far as I can remember is that she deludes herself and everyone around her into believing that she is so selfless and low-maintenance because she is all about little joys in life. Like tea, and toast. Since she believes that she is so frugal in her material enjoyments, she develops this sense of entitlement: since she only ever wants a little tea and toast (nothing extravagant) she gets domineering if her toast is burned, or her tea is not just right... after all, why shouldn't she have the best, since her requirements are so reasonable? She comes to take these enjoyments for granted, even though they must, at one time, have caused her as much excitement as my mail does now. This is the sin that is ultimately going to make her eligible for eternal damnation, and I remember that really hitting home when I read it last summer. I have no remarks on the Christian aspect of Lewis' commentary, but it does give one pause: am I deluding myself by getting all excited over a few pieces of mail? If I continue to get mail, will I eventually take it for granted? Will I start to feel entitled to written correspondence rather than blessed by it? Oh! Great Con and books are conspiring to ruin my life again! I can't possibly say, 'no, Zoe, you must revile all letters and be an ascetic, and move to remote regions to prove your devout renouncement of all worldly pleasures, great and small.' I have to take a stance somewhere, Lewis, I'm sorry, and it seems to me that God allowed the now anachronistic postal service to endure, not so that I might get my monthly Boden magazine (how DO I get off that mailing list?) but so that I might get letters from real people and become truly happy because of it. And if I enjoy them too much, then that must be my sin, and I am glad that I am at least aware of it. Maybe awareness is enough to prevent entitlement, disenchantment, and all sorts of other bad things that Lewis mentions. I don't know.
On that same note of banishing the dissonant chords of this blog, please please please don't let this blog guilt trip you into writing post (as they call it here). That's not my intention! Written correspondence is certainly not for everyone, and I appreciate that snail mail is outdated for a reason. I also love emails and telepathy (wink wink Joe). I better go to dinner now, the dinning hall is only open for 45 minutes, for some reason, and I'm already late. If things continue to go my way there will be bread pudding for dessert. With raisins. It happened once, it can happen again!
May the post fairy smile upon your PO boxes, and may you make the most of all of your letters and not look too deeply into philosophical/Christian/theological/satirical commentaries on life! If you stare too long into the philosophical, the philsophical will stare back into you....
With love from Oxford.... Z
* This footnote for Bjorn and other etymology enthusiasts: yesterday, in the middle of a lecture about Thomas More's Utopia, the tutor had the excuse to give us the roots of the word "satire".... it is a word that actually goes back to the Roman's slang word for "salad bowl" In a satire, there are bits of truth that get mixed around, but never really blend with the false parts of the satire, just like random pieces of food in a salad bowl, they never melt together to form a homogeneous food substance. Alright, that is a little sketchy, maybe I'm not getting it all right, but that was what he said anyway, and its pretty cool, you should look into it.
Part of the reason I found the strength to carry on till the wee hours of the morning was because I knew that today was going to be a good day, and indeed it has been. I went and had fabulous tea at breakfast (and toast with honey... and an orange.... and some yogurt of the pink variety), then read a chapter on William the Marshal, who was supposed to be the ideal knight figure. He was a real person too, and the biographical poem about him is the earliest vernacular biography of a lay person! From the early 13th century! Whoa! The chapter I was reading was so good, it was attacking this French historian named Duby who apparently was an incurable idiot when it came to William the Marshal, and some of the zingers in his text were so good I couldn't help laughing out loud in the library, and got reproached by the impish librarian at St. Peter's (get this Carmen, her name is actually Marian. No joke). I went for a run (still no swan man) and ate some lunch, played some viola, read some of the Romance of the Rose, and here I am! ready for teatime. The fact that I have managed to squeeze in a run, some time on the viola, lots of tea, homework and laughing in the library makes it a fabulous day indeed. Days I don't have to write any papers are practically weekends, in fact, but better, because I still end up reading lots instead of feeling obliged to make an appearance at the pub (not bashing pubs, just the fact that you are deemed reclusive if you don't go. Indeed, humanity frequently gives such honorable establishments a bad name).
The more I think about it, the more I realize that today had everything it needed to be perfect. There was nothing left to be desired, not even the bad weather bothered me, it just meant I had an excuse to use my shockingly fashionable black umbrella (with ruffle). Alright, the dense fog is a bit much, and the fact that my heater is broken is a little depressing, and I could whine a little about how little sleep Oxford allows me... but all the little whiny bits make the good bits that much better, like how Ishmael describes being under the warm covers next to his new cannibal friend Queequeg: its no good being totally warm and cozy unless a tiny part of you is sticking out in the cold for contrast, like your nose, or one toe. So with these contrasting bits of discomfort, I really couldn't ask for better conditions for contentedness...and yet, there was more in store for me. When I got back from St. Peter's library and peeked in my little mail slot, I caught a glimpse of two beautiful letters, my address made out in two different, yet instantly recognizable hands. I gasped for joy and fumbled for my mail key, and Dr. Philpott cautiously asked me if I was alright as he passed me on the landing. Mail! glorious mail! Two letters at once is almost too much to handle, especailly when they're from good friends. I read one right away, and am squandering the other for when I've finished all my readings for the night. I passed one of the girls on the stairs (there are 62 between the ground floor and my bedroom) grinning like a maniac, and she was the second person to ask me if I was alright. "Just happyyyyy!!!!!" I said. She probably wanted to hit me, she looked grumpy, sort of like I felt last night 1,000 words into my paper. I would have wanted to hit me too.
So now I have this one unopened letter sitting on my desk, the thought of which forces me to smile, even when I try not to (especailly when I try not to). The other is laying open on my bed after having read it through a few times. I wonder at how such a small, 10 cent envelope can dispel such enormous and engulfing things as loneliness, despair, and exhaustion, and one hasn't even been opened yet. The mere knowledge that I have a letter waiting to open keeps me going, its a little like running a car on fumes. I spend the in between moments thinking about what would be the best time to open it... should I wait until I am in the pits of despair, and horde it? Should I read it just before I go to bed, as a reward for finishing all my homework? Should I save it till Friday when I am going to go get cream tea at the Grand Cafe (see next installment having to do with cream tea, among other varieties). I probably won't be able to last till Friday, although I do love reading letters in public, knowing that everyone around me is secretly jealous.
Letters are so amazingly wonderful. I get so much out of just staring at the handwriting on the fronts, and thinking about my friends or my sister as they sit at their desks in Mellby, or at the familiar table in the library, or on their French provincial couch with small demonic dog close at hand. I always like the way my roommate makes her letter g's. Every one of Julie's g's is like a little wave from the page, and the bedazzles on Guilaine's stationary makes me feel like she's winking up at me from the card in my hand. Bjorn's writing reminds me forcibly of the way he sits up perfectly straight in the library, doing math. It must be the way he's written my address neatly aligned on an imaginary left margin. All of these things set my dimples twitching. You guys are on every inch of the pieces of paper you send me, and the knowledge that your warm hand once moved across the page that I now hold in my hand, thousands of miles away, is like a little miracle for 98 cents (or however much an international stamp goes for these days). Its not just a piece of paper with some writing on it, its really a little piece of someone I miss. I hope I never have a lover as a pen pal. Even if he wrote dull letters, it might do me in just the same.
Reading over this blog again gives me a bad feeling, somehow... it makes me think of a chapter in Lewis' The Screwtape Letters. In this satirical* Christian commentary, the administrative staff in Hell are commenting on one little old lady who seems very humble, but really they are celebrating the fact that they are about to "get" her for their collection of souls in Hell. This old lady's sin, as far as I can remember is that she deludes herself and everyone around her into believing that she is so selfless and low-maintenance because she is all about little joys in life. Like tea, and toast. Since she believes that she is so frugal in her material enjoyments, she develops this sense of entitlement: since she only ever wants a little tea and toast (nothing extravagant) she gets domineering if her toast is burned, or her tea is not just right... after all, why shouldn't she have the best, since her requirements are so reasonable? She comes to take these enjoyments for granted, even though they must, at one time, have caused her as much excitement as my mail does now. This is the sin that is ultimately going to make her eligible for eternal damnation, and I remember that really hitting home when I read it last summer. I have no remarks on the Christian aspect of Lewis' commentary, but it does give one pause: am I deluding myself by getting all excited over a few pieces of mail? If I continue to get mail, will I eventually take it for granted? Will I start to feel entitled to written correspondence rather than blessed by it? Oh! Great Con and books are conspiring to ruin my life again! I can't possibly say, 'no, Zoe, you must revile all letters and be an ascetic, and move to remote regions to prove your devout renouncement of all worldly pleasures, great and small.' I have to take a stance somewhere, Lewis, I'm sorry, and it seems to me that God allowed the now anachronistic postal service to endure, not so that I might get my monthly Boden magazine (how DO I get off that mailing list?) but so that I might get letters from real people and become truly happy because of it. And if I enjoy them too much, then that must be my sin, and I am glad that I am at least aware of it. Maybe awareness is enough to prevent entitlement, disenchantment, and all sorts of other bad things that Lewis mentions. I don't know.
On that same note of banishing the dissonant chords of this blog, please please please don't let this blog guilt trip you into writing post (as they call it here). That's not my intention! Written correspondence is certainly not for everyone, and I appreciate that snail mail is outdated for a reason. I also love emails and telepathy (wink wink Joe). I better go to dinner now, the dinning hall is only open for 45 minutes, for some reason, and I'm already late. If things continue to go my way there will be bread pudding for dessert. With raisins. It happened once, it can happen again!
May the post fairy smile upon your PO boxes, and may you make the most of all of your letters and not look too deeply into philosophical/Christian/theological/satirical commentaries on life! If you stare too long into the philosophical, the philsophical will stare back into you....
With love from Oxford.... Z
* This footnote for Bjorn and other etymology enthusiasts: yesterday, in the middle of a lecture about Thomas More's Utopia, the tutor had the excuse to give us the roots of the word "satire".... it is a word that actually goes back to the Roman's slang word for "salad bowl" In a satire, there are bits of truth that get mixed around, but never really blend with the false parts of the satire, just like random pieces of food in a salad bowl, they never melt together to form a homogeneous food substance. Alright, that is a little sketchy, maybe I'm not getting it all right, but that was what he said anyway, and its pretty cool, you should look into it.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)