Frith

It's a gap, Cleo, that exists between people who seriously love certain things, appreciate them seriously and see them as part of a tradition, and the modern tendency to try and find in the traditions something they can relate to and help bring these artists and writers into our world. I like your style as you will need it if you ever teach history.

One of my English tutors once said to me: "I don't know what I should do with these young people. Should I wear jeans and sit on the edge of the table, hanging one leg down. Should I say things like 'cool'?"

I nearly fell off my chair with suppressed amusement, as he was a very serious sort and the idea of him doing this was ... well ...

And he was genuinely exasperated with the new generation who seemed so uncaring and so liberated and so far from his own. He wore a suit and had a large personal library of collected books.

So I said to him: "Please don't do any of that, Professor X, as it really wouldn't suit you. I respect your mind and what you know. You know a great deal and at the moment, as your student, I mostly know nothing -"

He interrupted me with: "I don't know much, I ... what do I know ... I'm not a ... "


But I stopped him and told him that in our eyes, in my eyes, he was a specialist, an expert (he was, in his field, he was also just very unsure of himself) and that what we were waiting for, what I was waiting for, was for him to transfer the spark of what he knew to our little bundle of dry sticks and set us all on fire and make us enthusiastic. In other words, I was fully expecting to be remade and reborn by what he could tell me about my language and literature and about literature in general. As I was willing to consider myself ignorant beforehand and was hoping to be enlightened thereafter. He was, to us, a master (he was, he was a doctorate and a Professor and head of the department ) and that is why we were willing to listen to him and take his word for things while we learned how to do this for ourselves.

I hoped he could just ignore the free love, men in pony tails and earrings and the girls with big sad eye make up and really skinny hips and just see us all as part of the circus of humanity so he could do his job and some of us could be all lit up by the fire of his intellect and be enriched by his gifts.

He looked at me as though I had spoken in Japanese, but did smile. I then informed him I had read both versions of Wordsworth's Prelude and that I was presently comparing the 1805 version with the 1836 version and that I found merit in both, but that the later version held the best literary value although the earlier version (in my view) held the fire of the young poet's soul started up during the exciting times of the French Revolution. Which old Wordsworth participated in and during which he had an illegitimate child with a French girl. (That we could really identify ourselves with! Wordsy was like us!)

My Professor stared at me once more and said disbelievingly: "You've read both Preludes?"

I felt my spirit rising in self defence. Yep. Honest, Prof, both Preludes.

He looked dubious, Nobody wanted to read one of them, let alone some skinny blond reading both of them. But I had read both of them and when exam time came I chose the question on the Prelude so I could put into my answer the comparisons I had found and assess this most important work on the basis of a broad view. As I had been taught by people who knew how to teach. I gained a distinction for that paper and when the skinny blond who had seriously considered becoming a beautician instead got her results she also smiled and thought of her Professor. He wasn't a bad stick. He used to take in homeless cats and dogs from the animal shelter and they used to sit with him in his study and beg for biscuits when he had his tea. Academics are not bad people, especially those who do their job because they love their subject.

I know things have largely gone to hell in this area and socialists and other assorted ideologues have entered the hallowed precincts of academia to sell their wares by means of teaching their subjects and that what is important to many today is this political view instead of real knowledge and individual creative talent in delivering it. But I live in hope that the small fires started from when the good guys still walked the halls will burn again and make students feel wild and impregnated with the electric seeds of their heritage.

That is what is supposed to happen. So if, Cleo, you think of Dickens in a way that is part of your world, then, if Dickens can stand the test of time (and he can) you will be able to see him in his era as you see others in yours and find some connection. You may change your mind and your view with time, or you may keep it and develop it. What matters is the fire. Literature, history, biology, science, whatever is part of human knowledge and is all just a great burning of intellectual and emotional fire.

And it's about connections, to the past, to others and to the work itself. When I was a young poet and fledgling writer, I opened a book and there were these words:

TO A POET A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE

by: James Elroy Flecker

...

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

Full job here To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence, by James Elroy Flecker

This is when the world and time shrink to an atom and the past, present and future stand together in one moment before splitting apart again and going their separate ways. If learning doesn't have this spark, this spirit of brotherhood and this connection, it often falls short of its mission to enlighten and develop the mind and educate the imagination. And learning is, and should be, for everyone who searches for its rewards.

Just my opinion, but I'd die before I allow anyone to rip it out of my mouth and replace it with anything else. I think David is just concerned that this whole treasure house of heritage is teetering on the brink of oblivion.

I sincerely hope he isn't wrong and that somehow those people a thousand years hence will still be able to read our work too and smile and say "Hello". Because after we are gone only words remain to tell the story that we were ever here. And that is why I always say that words have wings.