On October 3, 2008, I found myself sitting in the basement of a hotel in London with about thirty other Americans. A safety consultant wearing a clean-cut, European suit with wallets in three different pockets stood at the front of the room demonstrating the obligatory important safety tips.
“And maybe you find yourself in a pub one night after a few too many pints. Men: Always be careful with your eyes. In the U.K., looking into another man’s eyes for more than three seconds means you either a) want to fight with him or b) want to sleep with him.”
It is funny to me that this anecdote sticks in my mind. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that should introduce a paper on going to a place like Oxford University, but the more that I think about it, it seems an appropriate metaphor for what Oxford means to me. Going there was about looking my fears and my heroes in the eye.
While I kept a blog, journal, and wrote many letters during my travels, In this presentation, I want to reflect on my decision to go to Oxford, where that decision came from, and what it means for me now as I move into the future.
While going to Oxford last year was primarily about studying Shakespeare and Modern British Drama, I also wanted to figure out people whose books have mattered to me deeply. I was shaped by authors who were shaped by Oxford, and I wanted to see how my life might be shaped by Oxford.
A lot of people seem to figure out what they want in life little earlier than myself. When I arrived at Capital, I knew that I wanted to be a teacher. This was because I loved books, and as a Christian, I tried to model my life on the image of a servant Christ. I saw these two things coming together in the form of becoming a teacher. At some point along my path toward becoming a teacher, I forgot that the most important element of teaching was not being the servant or doing the work, but passing on passion for life. Studying education became a means of purely getting a job when I graduated. I somewhat recklessly followed the education track, and two years into my college career found myself very frustrated and burned out.
So I started digging through my past to find stability, to find something that didn’t frustrate me. If my life was a brick wall that had somehow come up crooked, I was looking to take the wall back down to where it wasn’t crooked anymore. After dismantling my position, I came upon two authors that I’d spent a significant amount of time with in high school and early in college, Sheldon Van Auken and C.S. Lewis.
One of the most formative books in my personal life was A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Van Auken. This book is the memoir of a young, intelligent man who falls in love with a woman, travels the world with her, studies in Oxford, becomes a Christian, loses his wife, and spends a lot of time reconciling the pain of losing what was most precious to him. The main source of reconciliation for Van Auken is a series of letters that he exchanges with C.S. Lewis that are reprinted in this book. In the letters it becomes clear that Van Auken’s loss of his wife was actually a severe mercy. It was a great mercy that after experiencing such incredible and vibrant life with Davy, Van Auken did not have to experience the pain of losing his wife to a religion that he did not yet agree with or what would likely have been some other more mental or spiritual breakdown of the passion they shared for life and each other.
As a very young child, Van Auken describes himself making a decision not to pursue the static things in life, but rather he wanted the joys and the sorrows, because the life with joys and sorrows, the dynamic life was infinitely more valuable than the static life. “If there were a choice – and he suspected there was – a choice between, on the one hand, the heights and the depths and, on the other hand, some sort of safe, cautious middle way, he, for one, here and now chose the heights and the depths” (18). This passage has been very difficult for me to reconcile with my own experience. On a conscious level, I always affirmed his decision. However I think that many times I made little unconscious decisions that were not actually to pursue the joys and the sorrows, but rather to pursue something just shy of the joys and sorrows.
Van Auken’s argument for pursuing a fuller, more vibrant life is difficult to contest. The case is essentially that emotions are how we derive value from life, that in all the greatest books, the grandest and deepest emotions are associated with love for a significant other or God, and that therefore, to live the fullest, richest life, one must pursue love at the cost of everything, including stability and safety. If we accept all of his premises, then to lead a good life (or even just a slightly better life) there is only one choice – love.
The trouble with this dichotomy between a life of volume and a life of cautiousness however is that the choice to pursue the most vibrant life is perpetually progressive. A life that is perpetually progressive is always moving toward greater vibrancy. Deciding to pursue a life of vibrancy means relinquishing any hint of stability. This is something that I can only now say that I recognize. Decisions to live life more vibrantly are decisions to be perpetually progressive.
It is decisions like these that determine the soul’s afterlife according to C.S. Lewis’ The Great Divorce. In this book the afterlife is not really about punishment or pleasure, but about being either more vibrantly or infinitely regressively. Hell is a place where people gradually become less and less, smaller and smaller, more and more grey, till they are so pathetic that they have ceased to exist. Conversely, heaven is a place where people become more and more real, more and more vibrant. This scared me because it showed me that religiosity couldn’t just be a ticket to some afterlife, they had to be passionate expressions of my search for a vibrant life.
The similar theme in Lewis’ Till We Have Faces moved me in high school. The essential discovery of the narrator, Queen Orual, is that she could not love until she had a face, until she could accept herself and the gods’ inability to provide answers or justifications for the inadequacies that they create. At the end of her life, Queen Orual says, “I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice? Only words, words; to be led out to battle against other words” (319).
What scared me about all of these books was that the farther I got in life, the more I found myself not making decisions that would make my life more vibrant, more colorful, and more full of joy (or sorrow), but rather decisions that led me to a place similar to hell, a safe, protected, gray road that seemed to lead to some kind of financial security, complacency, abstraction, and safety.
Though I probably couldn’t have identified these fears as motivators for my original decision to study in Oxford, it now seems to me that they were the primary factor. Studying in Oxford was for me, a chance to get my hands messy, to take risks, to “live the dream” in the words of my roommate. Going to Oxford meant confronting my fears. It meant throwing away the safe secure path that I had compromised for myself. Going to Oxford was also a chance to come face to face with the authors who’d excited me so much when I was younger.
While I was there, I visited all of the places that Van Auken and Lewis inhabited. I spent a couple afternoons re-reading the chapter of A Severe Mercy where Sheldon and his wife, Davy, go to Oxford and find God. I noted all of the physical locations, the parks, the apartments, the colleges, the streets, and the pubs. I spent a couple afternoons walking around colleges like Exeter and Worcester, where Sheldon had spent much of his time in study. I visited the secretive and exclusive All Souls College where he writes about having one of the most amazing conversations of his entire life over the most beautifully laid meal he could have imagined. I walked through Port Meadow, where he wrote about laying in the fields reading with Davy. I drank a pint at The Trout, a bed-breakfast-pub where he would occasionally get dinner with Davy.
Near the end of term, as the cool rains of December began falling, I decided to visit Magdalene, Lewis’ college, and wander around its enormous grounds, imagining Lewis walking in the deer park with his pipe and some students, talking about the nature of courtly love in medieval literature. I also visited the pubs that he’d been known to frequent, The Eagle and Child and later the Lamb and Flag. There I’d sit with friends and talk about life, love, and politics, in his honor.
In many ways, I think these adventures were a pilgrimage of sorts. I wanted to know these men who had created these books that had so profoundly shaped how I thought about what was valuable in life. I needed to understand them. I wanted to see their faces. While studying in Oxford, I’m not sure that I found their faces, but in looking for theirs, I began to find my own and realize its value.
Since I’ve returned, I found a number of thinkers helpful in understanding what was going through my mind as I dealt with these questions about identity that had now affected me so deeply.
In “The Mirror Stage as Formative of the Funcion of the I as Revealed in Psychoanalitic Experience,” Jacques Lacan argues that the very first stage of fetal development is a mirror stage characterized by a “certain dehiscence.” The infant sees images of himself that are complete (an ideal-I) but his experience in life is that he cannot do anything to alleviate the inadequacies (for example, hunger) that he constantly experiences. The problems of the mirror stage are not necessarily ever solved. As the child learns to alleviate physical inadequacies, she gains higher thinking skills that conceive an ideal-I that is so perfect, so ideal that it can never be realized. Reading then becomes a process that either augments or reconciles the dehiscence, that makes the ideal-I more or less achievable.
Emmanuel Levinas writes that the face-to-face action between two humans is the source of ethical behavior. He argues that in coming face-to-face with another person, looking them directly in the eye, is the only way to learn how to love someone. He writes, “The Other precisely reveals himself in his alterity not in a shock negating the I, but as the primordial phenomenon of gentleness.” (150). Thus identity emerges when I am comfortable enough with my own face to recognize and embrace fundamental differences. Identity emerges when I can gently embrace my fundamental dehiscence. In this way, my trip to Oxford was about looking the people whose books I’d come to love, in the face to see if I could still love them. The question was not were they the same people that I’d encountered in their books but rather did it matter if they were the same people?
In deciding to go to Oxford, I was making a choice to look into the image of my ideal-I. I was looking into that image in order that I might gain clarity and knowledge not only about the authors and books that I loved, but ultimately I was looking to reconcile my life with the ideals that I had chosen for myself so long ago. I gave up a lot of security in deciding to go to Oxford. I paid a lot of money in the short term, and I also sacrificed the more stable path toward teaching that I had found myself on. In going to Oxford, I looked my fears in the eye. I looked into the mirror of the ideal-I and challenged it and what it represented in my life.
Though life since I’ve been back has not been any easier or necessarily more passionate, I do know now how important it is to find faces and look into the mirror of that ideal-I. I have re-learned again that loving life is not about stifling or ignoring passion, but looking people in the face and looking fears in the eye. It is in these moments that I am being, and gradually becoming more vibrant. This is ultimately now how I am deciding to live more like Van Auken.
And this is ultimately why I liked what the personal security consultant explained to us about looking men in the eyes. In looking people in the eyes, we realize that we not only exist, but we must react either passionately and violently, or we stand to lose everything.
