Oxford, 2018

Oxford is one of those places I can never be lonely. My relationship with it has always had the magnitude of a romance. Now, however, it feels like thwarted love. It crowds out other thoughts, desires, it makes me ecstatic, yet breeds avarice.. It is a land that belongs only to itself, that swallows and then regurgitates people whose cynicism masquerades as enlightenment and whose brilliance wears common clothes.

I happened to smoke with a somber young man whose eyes conspicuously avoided me until he had reached the butt end of his cigarette. His dissertation was on the Anthropological Mechanisms of Epistemology, or something similar. He seemed very proud of how long it took him to say it. He had allegedly been falling asleep in the library, clutching two pints of Guinness, as he plodded on with his work. He was no more than twenty two, yet his pronounced nasolabial folds, sunken eyes, the thickness in his throat, and the disdain in his voice made him look ancient. I was both afraid and in awe. It appeared to me that he had become so wedded to his work he had become a mere  vehicle for its birth into the world. And indeed, many at Oxford are this way. This strange, quasi-religious self-sacrifice in favor of one’s own intellectual and academic pursuits is nowhere as pronounced as in this ancient town, and it makes me wonder where I stand on that spectrum.

I feel as though I have nearly transcended the crust of my unhappiness. Yet I am still asking myself, what does it mean to write, and consequently, what does it mean to live? Recently, I read Baudelaire’s Une Charogne, A Carcass, where he compares his love to a rotting carcass he chances upon during a walk. The poem itself gives one an eerie feeling, almost similar to that of the Book of Revelation. The truth weighs down the words, they press against you, like the whisper of a prophecy in a closed room:  “Et pourtant vous serez semblable à cette ordure/ À cette horrible infection/ Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature / Vous, mon ange et ma passion!” “And yet you will be like this corruption / Like this horrible infection / Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being / You, my angel and my passion!”

We will all, no matter how desperately we are loved, rot and retreat underneath the earth. Baudelaire, however, dwells on this consolation: “Alors, ô ma beauté! dites à la vermine/ Qui vous mangera de baisers/ Que j’ai gardé la forme et l’essence divine/ De mes amours décomposés!” “Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will/ Devour you with kisses/ That I have kept the form and the divine essence/ Of my decomposed love!” He has cheated mortality with his art, his godlike power, his grasp of poetry, has allowed him to preserve the spirit of his love despite her body’s inevitable decay.

This is nothing new. We cling to the material, but the material never lasts, so we cling to the intangible in the hope that it will. We are tormented by the fact that what gives us the greatest joy now is finite, and so we give all we can to something greater than ourselves. In a way, every ardent student has had their own ghastly vision of a charogne, a carcass. A fear of absurdity, a fear that their talents and aspirations will prove pitiful in the grand scheme of things. The most anxious find themselves in the library with two pints of Guinness, chain-smoking intermittently. But must we really be motivated by fear? Is it not wonder that should spur our desire to explore the generations of wisdom before us? After some deliberation, I would say both.

Wonder is the catalyst, but there is nothing like fear to carry us safely through to the end.