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.