Our Romantics lecturer, I’m convinced, is a descendent of Merlin. He has a vague, wafty look about his appearance that makes me think of wizards for some reason: not quite attached to the world we live in. And then there is his beard (which looks more like curly fuzz sparsely attached to a sticky substance on his face), the archaic language he uses and these strange long-sleeved kaftan-type thingys he wears over his trousers, rounded off with unconventional pairs of strops or crocs that cements the idea in my mind.
But he nevertheless fascinated me: here was someone who would not be easily boxed. I was dying to try and capture him, and this is what I wrote about him one particularly dreary lecture: He was a man uncomfortable in his position as a lecturer, as an indoors man who believes himself to be in love with nature will seem at a loss or completely out of place in a garden. He knew what he was talking about, but it was delivered in an uncertain way, as would one’s speech to a mirror be if they were to speak 45 minutes on a prescribed criteria. He floated gently between standing and sitting on his desk, asking rhetorical questions, and accepted class participation or the lack of it, like waves accept the rain and with no more ado. At most, he’d ask a question (always seeming expectant of reaction) but will wait a beat or two, perhaps with a soft, monosyllabic laugh (“heh”) and continue.
Work is a fickle thing. Especially when given by this character. There are so many times I approach it was a dead-pan attitude, or dread, and sometimes it will surprise me and I find myself enjoying it, (although, as is with life, most of the time, I don’t).
My Romantics English course is like this. We have a lecturer whom we cannot truly comprehend for most of his lectures, as he is fond of the high-fluted philosophic language that has been outdated by almost two centuries. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it isn’t his language at all. His classes are presented like an essay, and here the term doesn’t simply signify that they have a beginning, a body and a conclusion. He prepares his classes, from what can be seen, in essay format, with the correct structure and so on, and apart from giveaway terms such as “but I’ll speak more on that later,” and “to conclude” there is also the dead giveaway of the blue lever-arch folder he brings to class and reads from. He literally reads from this essay of prepared teaching. I suppose this convenient for him because most of his lecture is a mélange of the 18th century writings themselves which he has re-ordered in his essay to present to us. Another inconvenience avoided: when speaking aloud, he doesn’t have to reference. Although his referencing would be useful, because once challenged, he can’t remember where it is, or can’t find it. And had he referenced, several hours of my research in the library would have spared because had I known going in, that all the relevant passages in the books he’d recommended had been read aloud to us in lectures, I wouldn’t have bothered finding the source of them myself.
This leaves a bit of a sour taste of disappointment in one’s mouth, especially as this was the course I was most looking forward to, and expecting the most from. However, I found in reading the texts he’d directed us to for researching, that instead of being flustered at all the convoluted syntax to make space for the tedious philosophic musings, I had grasped it (albeit in a rudimentary way) already in lectures. So on coming to the original text, not only did the ponderings on the poetry make perfect sense to me, I was also convinced of their argument, and carried off on a stream of deliciously verbose verbiage. More pleasant (and surprising!) was the interruption of my own thoughts, adding uniquely relevant thoughts to the discussions I was reading, and my own interpretations. So even when I disagreed (I am passionately against reading too much into poetry, or anything that will not stand up to it) I found it amusing to form my own arguments in supporting my views, although they probably would hold their own in any strictly academic writing. One doesn’t believe in art for art’s sake when being ‘academic.’
And if this course has taught me anything, it has helped me recognize that my own creative philosophy is art for art’s sake.
