England with rain and grey clouds and humidity, and another low front behind that. How’s he going to get any work done—any serious work?
It’s alright for me, he says. I’m in the east of the country, for a start, which means that the weather doesn’t linger in the same way. Oh it’s much colder, he knows that—he always brings a warm jacket when he stays with me—but it’s fresher too; it’s good for the mind, good for thought.
But W. can’t think, he says. He knows the Westerlies are coming. He knows low pressure’s going to dominate the weather for weeks, if not months. Sometimes whole seasons are dominated by Westerlies, which costs him an immense amount in lost time and missed work.
He’s still up early every morning, of course. He’s still at his desk at dawn. Four AM; five AM—he’s ready for work; he opens his books; he takes notes as the sky brightens over Stonehouse roofs. He’s there at the inception, at thebeginning of everything, even before the pigeons start cooing like maniacs on his window-ledge.
He’s up before anyone else, he knows that, but there’s still no chance of thinking. Not a thought has come to him in recent months; not one. He’s stalled, W. says. There’s been an interregnum. But when wasn’t he stalled? When wasn’t it impossible for him to think? No matter how early he gets up, he misses his appointment with thought ; no matter how he tries to surprise it by being there before everyone else.
W.’s reading a book of Latin philosophical phrases.—‘Ah, here’s something that applies to you: Barba non facit philosophum . A beard does not make a philosopher’. Then he tests me: What does eo ipso mean? What’s the difference between modus tollens and modus ponens ?—‘ Tabula rasa : I know you know that. And conatus —even you must know that’.
‘You don’t actually know anything, do you?’, W. says. ‘You’ve got no body of knowledge ’. W. has ancient Hebrew, of course, and he can play classical guitar. And there are whole oeuvres with which he is familiar. He’s read his way through Husserl, for example. He’s not entirely bewildered by Leibniz.
Socrates knew he knew nothing: that was his wisdom, and the beginning of all wisdom, W. says. But there’s a difference between knowing nothing and knowing nothing , he says. There’s a difference between knowing you know nothing only to sally forth from your ignorance, and wallowing in your ignorance like a hippo in a swamp.
‘You don’t want to know’, W. says. And I’m drinking toforget what little I did know. There’s nothing left for me, he says. Nothing but the empty sky, and the Zen-like emptiness of my head.
I’m always overawed by Oxford, W. knows that. Overawed, and therefore contemptuous. I hate it, W. says, because I love it. It disappoints me, W. says, because I have disappointed it: wasn’t I bussed in from my secondary modern to see what a real university was like? Didn’t I apply to study here as a student?
‘What do you think they made of you?’, W. asks. ‘What did they make of chimp boy, with his delusions of grandeur?’ Did I think I would survive a minute in Balliol College ? Did I think I’d be punting with the toffs?
W.’s dad, who was very wise, banned him from applying altogether.—You don’t belong there!’, he told him, and he was right. W. has always been free of any Oxford influence , he says. He’s free of the attraction to Oxford , but also of the repulsion from Oxford : he doesn’t hate it as I do.
Oxford brings out the Diogenes in me, W. says. I all but assault passers-by. Truth-telling, that’s what I call it. Drunken abuse, that’s what he’d call it, W. says.
The kernel is in Poland, we agree as we walk up the Cowley Road. The secret is in Poland. We run through our memories.Our Polish adventure! When were we happier? Didn’t it all come together there? Wasn’t it there that it all began?
There we were, ambassadors for our country,
It’s alright for me, he says. I’m in the east of the country, for a start, which means that the weather doesn’t linger in the same way. Oh it’s much colder, he knows that—he always brings a warm jacket when he stays with me—but it’s fresher too; it’s good for the mind, good for thought.
But W. can’t think, he says. He knows the Westerlies are coming. He knows low pressure’s going to dominate the weather for weeks, if not months. Sometimes whole seasons are dominated by Westerlies, which costs him an immense amount in lost time and missed work.
He’s still up early every morning, of course. He’s still at his desk at dawn. Four AM; five AM—he’s ready for work; he opens his books; he takes notes as the sky brightens over Stonehouse roofs. He’s there at the inception, at thebeginning of everything, even before the pigeons start cooing like maniacs on his window-ledge.
He’s up before anyone else, he knows that, but there’s still no chance of thinking. Not a thought has come to him in recent months; not one. He’s stalled, W. says. There’s been an interregnum. But when wasn’t he stalled? When wasn’t it impossible for him to think? No matter how early he gets up, he misses his appointment with thought ; no matter how he tries to surprise it by being there before everyone else.
W.’s reading a book of Latin philosophical phrases.—‘Ah, here’s something that applies to you: Barba non facit philosophum . A beard does not make a philosopher’. Then he tests me: What does eo ipso mean? What’s the difference between modus tollens and modus ponens ?—‘ Tabula rasa : I know you know that. And conatus —even you must know that’.
‘You don’t actually know anything, do you?’, W. says. ‘You’ve got no body of knowledge ’. W. has ancient Hebrew, of course, and he can play classical guitar. And there are whole oeuvres with which he is familiar. He’s read his way through Husserl, for example. He’s not entirely bewildered by Leibniz.
Socrates knew he knew nothing: that was his wisdom, and the beginning of all wisdom, W. says. But there’s a difference between knowing nothing and knowing nothing , he says. There’s a difference between knowing you know nothing only to sally forth from your ignorance, and wallowing in your ignorance like a hippo in a swamp.
‘You don’t want to know’, W. says. And I’m drinking toforget what little I did know. There’s nothing left for me, he says. Nothing but the empty sky, and the Zen-like emptiness of my head.
I’m always overawed by Oxford, W. knows that. Overawed, and therefore contemptuous. I hate it, W. says, because I love it. It disappoints me, W. says, because I have disappointed it: wasn’t I bussed in from my secondary modern to see what a real university was like? Didn’t I apply to study here as a student?
‘What do you think they made of you?’, W. asks. ‘What did they make of chimp boy, with his delusions of grandeur?’ Did I think I would survive a minute in Balliol College ? Did I think I’d be punting with the toffs?
W.’s dad, who was very wise, banned him from applying altogether.—You don’t belong there!’, he told him, and he was right. W. has always been free of any Oxford influence , he says. He’s free of the attraction to Oxford , but also of the repulsion from Oxford : he doesn’t hate it as I do.
Oxford brings out the Diogenes in me, W. says. I all but assault passers-by. Truth-telling, that’s what I call it. Drunken abuse, that’s what he’d call it, W. says.
The kernel is in Poland, we agree as we walk up the Cowley Road. The secret is in Poland. We run through our memories.Our Polish adventure! When were we happier? Didn’t it all come together there? Wasn’t it there that it all began?
There we were, ambassadors for our country,
Similar Books
