As Paul Harvey would say..."And now, the rest of the story"...or at least some of it

Aaron handed me an article this last week which he brought up during the discussion of my paper.  Hearing my description of the painter Gauguin, he thought it may be the same man he read about a few weeks previous.  Low and behold, the artist who cut off van Gogh’s ear is believed to be, the man himself, Gauguin.  The January 2010 issue of the New Yorker published “Van Gogh’s Ear,” by Adam Gopnik alongside van Gogh’s “Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear and Pipe” (1889).  The article discusses the previously theorized version of what happened with van Gogh and his ear, and the 2009 version brought to the table by two German academics, Kaufmann and Wildegans.  While the story of the ear is no doubt a catchy one, the ear isn’t really the important part in the eyes of the author.  But since the ear is the reason for so much attention placed here, we’ll look at it anyway. 

The most common story told of van Gogh had been that he had self-mutilated himself one Christmas Eve and then gifted his ear to his favorite prostitute.  This narrative gave people reason to believe that the act was sacrificial and in the name of art; something that replaced religion.  Just as in my wanderings through the “artist” myth, it usually all comes back to a morality discussion.  If a person was rejecting the code set out for them by society, they were placed in the “loony” bin and taken out with the trash.  Don’t look for evidence, just label the guy and get away.  So van Gogh held this image for nearly a century, until it was pointed out that van Gogh wasn’t the type of guy to do this; besides, most of those who cut themselves do not cut their ears, and this cut had been made much cleaner than one made by a person’s own hand.

This now brings into the picture the man of the hour: Paul Gauguin.  This is a tale that was not a part of Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence; for some reason it was void from this biographical look at Gauguin.  This seems odd to me as it seems it would have supported and added to his story of the painter as the relationship of the two painters fit right in with the image Maugham paints of Gauguin.  Van Gogh can’t wait to live with Gauguin, who is soon moving to Paris.  He giddily plans on his coming like a child excited for a sleep over.  Van Gogh has waited for a community living situation with other artists and Gauguin will be the man that will make it all happen.   From what we have learned of Gauguin at this point, we know that not much is going to come of this.  Gauguin is not the ideal houseguest; he puts his host down, walks out on him while he is talking; behaves in van Gogh’s eyes, as a “wild beast” would (and it’s a good thing van Gogh didn’t have a wife).  Yet, van Gogh is still mystified and revered him.  This sounds somewhat like our Dirk Stroeve character.

While it was van Gogh’s ear getting cut off, Gauguin is in the spotlight now, just as he was in The Moon.  The new version of the ear mutilating story puts Gauguin at the front as the culprit.  It is now believed that Gauguin, a skilled fencer, was wielding a sword around van Gogh’s head that ill-fated Christmas Eve and sliced off his companion’s ear by accident.  Van Gogh was too embarrassed and Gauguin felt guilt and the two decided to remain quiet about the matter.  Further support for this theory is found in the letters the two wrote to each other in which references to ears are subtly made.  It was then that Gauguin made his getaway to Tahiti.  This isn’t the first time he is getting away, Gauguin is always wanting to get away.  And now he has us captured— and we think we have him captured; he is the perfect image of the artist.

How do you describe Gauguin and his ways?  Bernard Williams calls the case of Gauguin, a case of ‘moral luck.’  In a sense, “doing the wrong thing—abandoning your wife and children and betraying your friends—appears to be morally justifiable, since the art made was, as it happened, great” (Gopnik 52).  It is also what occurs for many other “greats.”  If a person ruins their life and is a failure, they are forgotten.  While if they ruin their life and for some reason people perceive their work to genius, then they are made eternal.  It is all really up to luck though; a person happens to pick up a certain strange painting and keeps it instead of throwing it away, because there is something about it.  And Gauguin is believed by Gopnik to be the moral luck “original” whom van Gogh, Picasso, and many others who followed the modern art movement set off by Gauguin, looked to follow. 

How does this “moral luck” phenomenon occur?  How do we, as a “discerning society,” allow for it?  We have the ability to say shame on some people, but not shame on others?  Why do we want the Gauguins of the world, the men or women that do the things that put other individuals out of house and home, to take the spot light?  Maybe, as Gopnik concludes, we allow for moral luck because we need artists who take risks to make up for our caution.  As he says, we may place a bet at a casino and call it a risk, but an artist “bets his life.”  And it is these people that become the stories we want to hear again and again.

It reminds me of my cousin (a couple of times removed) Gennie DeWeese.  She was an artist along with her husband Bob, in the Bozeman area.  She was made famous for the scene in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance in which she brings a bunch of beers out to the boys.  Gennie, in a sense, was “one of the boys.”  She lived life free from as many pre-set notions as to what a woman or art should be as possible.  The picture that was chosen for her obituary was of her smoking a cigarette with a big grin spreading across her wrinkled cheeks.  As much recognition as she may have received as an artist, in the end, her own words were that she had left “five great kids and a few good paintings.”  Gennie knew what was important to her, despite what was important about her to others.   Maybe that says a lot about other artists too.  We hear their stories, see their work, but never really get to ask them what is important to them—what really matters?

As I usually find when I begin writing on a topic, I am not going where I thought I would.  I have ended up really focusing on three texts rather than the initial five, because I have found that two of the texts have a difficult time fitting into the conversation that my paper is forming.  My paper started as a focus on those who live their lives as art and this concept is still there, but I am now getting into the idea of the “genius” as well.  And I don’t see any problems with this; the genius and the artist are really two in the same as I am finding.  And they both fit into the master concept.  They both see the world in a way that most don’t.  Their passion drives them toward something abstract.  They see possibility where there should be none.  They both try to live their lives as art.  And this idea, I am starting to see, means being free to form a life in the way one sees as most beautiful regardless of what society says—to be free of all that may confine a human.  In this world, right and wrong become muddled.  I am beginning to see this as a choice all people have, and those who make it are usually pushed out of society—they are seen as crazy.

I also try to find out why people are regarded as crazy or insane and then, one day, they are genius.  How can the same person, the same idea, be both upheld and abhorred by society at the same time.  I have been using Yeats’ poem to guide me through the paper, but as I am finding, depending on who the speaker is on the subject of art (Wilde, Maugham, Yeats, Steiner), art can be many different things.  Most discussions of art come to a point where there is a question of its moral nature.  Are artists filled with evil spirits or are they reaching for the divine?  I am also finding it difficult to really understand the intent of the concept of the “master’s final lesson” being to make one’s self eternal.  Are we to listen to the master?  Are we to be this master?  Because if we are, as the literary texts that I am using show, there is a lot of harm that come to those who try to make themselves into art, as well as other people in their life.  The difficulty that arises seems to be that ‘life as art’ conflicts with a life that isn’t art.  Yeats wants to be a golden bird (art) and sing to the lords and ladies of Byzantium (not art).  Those who seek the eternal separate themselves from all others as a way to really connect with others?  So I guess this gets me back to a question that Dr. Sexson pointed out to me early on: “Is this something that is to be pursued?” 

Epilogue to the Epilogue

Upon hearing that they would be separated, Fatima and Alphonse II decided their love for each other reached beyond the religious aspirations their parents set out for them. 

Fatima loved her father and did not want to be looked upon disapprovingly by him for not choosing to go with him, but when she was honest with herself, she really didn’t know what to believe.  She did know that she loved her half brother, Alphonse, more than anything black ink could put to words.  As they grew together in the little cottage Fatima and Alphonse found comfort in only each other as their mothers were constantly arguing over who was more loved by their father.  It could have been a divided household if not for the two children’s intersecting paths.  Just as their father on a journey once crossed paths with Zubeida and Emina in which they intersected and formed a new path, despite their differences, the children too were drawn to each other’s differences.  Fatima was small, but strong and was always helping her brother up to the tallest tree so that he could “see the earth as a bird.”  Alphonse was tall and cautious, but wise like an old man and would warn Fatima in the tree when the clouds looked to be menacing.  They admired each other for what they had not, which is a trait not common in children as young as the two.

So their only choice was to flee their home in search of one where they could be together.  Alphonse had overheard stories from their mothers of a place of caves and great beauty where their family had acquired their wealth.  His father had told him stories of a place that seemed to be similar in description.  He remembered every detail of the stories and was able to paint himself a mental picture of the place and its location.  At night they experienced their first footsteps of freedom running and by morning found themselves waking in a place that seemed more imaginary than real. 

They found a cave that sounded just as the caves did in their father’s stories and made their way into the depths of the labyrinth finding themselves only lost in words. 

They spent their days wandering the vast caverns as if in search of something.  When they grew tired they would walk out to the open air and collect food for a meal or splash each other in a crystal clear pool.  The fruit was plentiful.  The air was temperate.  The animals were kind.  Their mothers could not have created a better fairy tale than what they were living.

As the months passed however, they found themselves fighting over places to sit and berries in a bush, things that had never brought tension before.  Their talking grew less and they occupied much of their time alone.

It was around this time that Fatima was exploring a new section of the cave she had never been in before.  She entered into a room that had a small chair and an old pot of ink.  There was also a finely embroidered tapestry that lay over a rectangular object.  She brushed off the fabric and lifted it off to find a large bundle of papers poorly bound together.  She could barely make out the words that were slightly water stained. Saragossa was all it said.

She rushed to find her brother, and for the first time in days, grabbed his hand and led him to the room.  Together they sat on the floor and poured over the first book they saw in months.  They read it until they fell asleep.  Entranced by the story, they woke up the next day and read again until they were asleep.  After seven days of reading, they finished the book.  On the seventh day, they found that all the stories within the book had been made-up.  That is what the book said. 

At first they were stunned.  What did this mean?  They discussed with each other their thoughts on what it meant.  When they were finished, although they had no new answers, they decided that they would talk about other parts of the book that were equally as important as the part that had told them it was all made-up.  They made a ritual of sitting, sharing food and reading the stories together each day for a few hours.  They talked about what they thought the stories meant and why they were written.  The stories explained things to them that made their lives together better.

They knew all along that the stories were written by their father and that there was some truth and some fiction in it all, but that didn’t matter.  Their father wrote the book to be read.

“You taught me how man makes himself eternal.” Elliot Norton, Lessons of the Masters (55)

“The artist is the creator of beautiful things.” Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1)

On the opening page of Steiner we hear him ask, “What empowers a man or woman to teach another human being, where lies the wellspring of authority?”  Steiner’s answer to this is vast—

quite unending really.  One of the directions he takes this daunting question is toward the idea that the pursuit of the individual is to become eternal—to last beyond their physical body—to have their words memorized and recited, written and read—for their image to be made a masterpiece in which they will be viewed for ages to come as an object of beauty.  Through teaching, the master seeks to be the creator of not only their students, but of themselves.  Our master, the artist, desires to be made art. 

While the desire to be art, is quite a bold request, it is not one that has been kept silent.  Inherent to the master (at least in myth) seems to be need to make their desires known; to be blunt about it, in a poetic way.  Yeats gives us Sailing to Byzantium.        

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enameling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

My initial reaction to this was, why would anyone want to be made into art?  I do admire art and create it, yet I myself have not craved being carved out of marble.  There seemed to be something quite stifling, and in contrast to the real beauty of the master at their teaching.  For some reason though, I don’t think this is what is being said here.  The “art” that is being discussed is quite different.  Maybe one that is unavoidable to the true master.  So it is from here that I leap off into my final paper about the final lesson.  With these questions guiding me I begin:

Why do people desire to be art?

What does it mean to speak about a person’s life as a work of art?

Is such a state attainable or inevitably something to be pursued?

Can the “final lesson” (to seek eternal life) be articulated in a simple and coherent way?

What is the effect of the image on the master/disciple relationship?

How do disciples devote themselves to a master’s image?

What becomes of art?     

With the help of Steiner’s Lesson’s, Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, Shakespeare’s A Winter’s Tale, Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence, and Ovid’s Metamorphoses, I hope to start to uncover what is at the heart of the human desire to live a life as art and observe what then becomes a disciples devotion to the art. 

My head is swimming with images. 

Waking up, I find myself on cold gallows between two hanged men who look at me with ghastly stares; looking around, I find myself warmed by the company of a band of gypsies and an array of others gathered around a fire telling stories.  I cringe as I catch a glimpse of a collection of a hundred volumes composed over a lifetime, destroyed by rats.  I find myself curious at the image of the young boy peeking lovingly through the trees at a young girl enrobed in precious stones; this image brings me to Cleopatra’s boat lined with mother-of-pearl, in which she will sail to Antony.  A dwarf with a wooden leg hobbles across my thoughts, bringing along with it images of the pranks played by the Gypsy Chief in his youth.  There was the time he dressed-up and took the place of the young Elvira who was soon to be wed to the viceroy; knowing all along the severity of the repercussions if he was found out.  Once out of this situation, he again dressed as a young woman in a black veil, intending to play with the mind of the young father Sanudo by confessing his love—all in hopes to catch him falling to sin.

And who can free themselves from the image and the itchy feeling of the mole-of-a-man, Busqueros, poking his nose into the everyday life of Lope Soarez and ruining any chance at his happiness with Ines.  And then, budging himself into the life of a silent ink maker to unite him with a verbose wax maker—which brings about the death of the helpless Senor Avadoro.  After which, Busqueros smoothes over the situation by marrying the widow.

I can’t free myself of these images and I really don’t want to, no matter how disturbing some of them may be.  Each beautiful image can only be so beautiful because of the images that stand in the shadows, those that haunt us; these dark images create a backdrop to make the light images so much brighter.   We know when we have heard or read a good story.  It is the one that appears in our minds as we stand in line to buy a coffee or falls into dinner table discussions with friends who have no clue what you are talking about.  Going against the “brany” grain of Steiner, Dr. Sexson hands us a good story; an enjoyable one full of images we can’t help, but recall.  A story that we really get—one that makes me feel like I am a kid at summer camp again.  Why were we given the privilege of the company of a great story for so many nights over the past few weeks? 

I remember the Geometer discussing his system and how he says that “the man who has seen the whole world through the eyes of travelers and has read about all the events of history really has an infinity of images in his head… and if he combines ideas, associates them and compares them, then this man really has knowledge and intellect” (426).  Dr. Sexson has been speaking to us about value of being able to memorize and orally pass on these memories—an art that is being lost.  Steiner has shared his thoughts on how “that which we know by heart will ripen and deploy within us,” as “the memorized text interacts with our temporal existence, modifying our experiences” (32).   For no one can “uproot the remembered poem” (32).

Maybe, we were in a way handed a great story to awaken within us childhood memories of being told a story before bed.  My mom wove for my brother and I the tale of Dawn Shabonn each night.  I remember Dawn’s house made out of one giant log and the children who snuck out of their house to visit her.  I remember how amazing I thought my mother was for creating each of these as I lay looking up at her.  These made up stories stand stronger in my mind than most real things that happened at that age.  

Was reading The Manuscript a way for us to recall what we as teachers and writers living at this time, don’t take time for? The Manuscript Found in Saragossa was a tale of tales remembered; a story beautifully choreographed by a man recalling tales of people recalling tales.  The band of travelers in the story don’t have books with them; all they can rely on are the stories that people provide.  And the stories that are provided are full of imagery that take people to other places and times that they would have never been otherwise.  Maybe Dr. Sexson wants us to ask ourselves, are we as teachers neglecting to take our students places through imagery we create?  Are we forgetting to create and tell stories?  Can we take notes from the Gypsy Chief, the Geometer and the Wandering Jew as to the pricelessness of our memory capabilities?  We as humans need images to be able to enhance our intellect.  We can provide images and enhance lives if we remember them and tell them to others.  And it seems that we remember best when we are told a good story like this one.    

Plato makes it very apparent in his, Symposium, that all those who precede Socrates in their “praises of love” are neatly tailoring their speeches as to best serve themselves.  While some of the listeners poke fun at some of the speeches, when each takes their turn, they too, apply love to their own needs and are, in a way, left blind by their own desires.

Phaedrus, the moderator for the evening, talks about love as a way to “gain virtue and blessedness” (12).  Pausanias’s speech is made to gain him the attention of one member of his audience in particular—Agathon, as an attempt to express to him that there is common love and then there is heavenly love and that his is surely the latter.  Eryximachus wants love to find companionship with his own professional practice of medicine.  He shares that medicine is “guided everywhere by the god of love” (21).  Aristophanes, the comedian, fittingly tells a comic tale of people looking for their other halves as a way to become whole and near the end moves the conversation forward toward the more serious idea of what Love’s nature is.   And Agathon, who has the added pressure of Socrates beside him, yet plenty of confidence to counter it, praises the beauty and high moral character of love with his poetic words; a beauty he was known for possessing.     

While the speakers can’t be blamed for talking about what they knew best, I got the feeling that Socrates, as Plato’s hero, was removed from all this—that he was able to show love with a clarity that was absent of his own marks.  How is a person able to objectively view love?  Possibly through the use of conversation with his “priestess,” Diotima.  Did Plato place Diotima in the story as a way to remove Socrates from his humanity?  We already get the picture throughout the story that Socrates is unlike any other man—even being labeled as a god by Alcibiades, to which Socrates asks him to “hold [his] tongue” (64).  He is seen as being able to drink bottomless glasses of wine and not be drunk, walk on ice and not experience pain, stand in one place for hours and not tire, and stay up an entire night and not be lethargic.  So Socrates needs to not only uphold his legendary reputation, he also needs to be the true master by appearing to know “nothing.”  While his method of “praising” love may desire to seek truth and is markedly different from all other speeches given, it is still a method that is innate to Socrates —within his own comfort zone and allows him to fulfill his own needs, just as the speeches before him do.  

Socrates uses two techniques to appear as if it is not his knowledge, but the knowledge of others he is calling on to make his “praise.”  He first questions Agathon.  Although it is Socrates whom everyone knows is wisely crafting the questions, it is still the answers that come from Agathon.  Socrates, in a way, is pointing out that these were things that Agathon already knew, he just didn’t see them.  Socrates concludes this part of his speech by stating that it really wasn’t his idea that Love needs good and beautiful things; it was just the truth and adds that “it is not hard at all to contradict Socrates” (44).  Again, Socrates tries to renounce his role of the “master who knows all”.

Next, Socrates places himself in the role of the disciple with Diotima as master—sharing with the group that she used the same argument he used against Agathon.  Here we hear Socrates asking questions such as “What’s that?” and “What do you mean?”  Questions that any child could ask and most adults would be afraid to ask.  Through his story of his conversation Diotima, we as readers, as well as everyone else in the group, now has the chance to see Socrates as a learner, a very vulnerable position to be in; yet as is made clear at one point in his storytelling in which Diotima refers to Aristophane’s story that was told earlier in the evening, we and everyone else know that this is a story that Socrates produced.  Now we see him as the master again, despite his “attempt” to be viewed differently. 

Plato wanted it to be known that Socrates knew what was up. Socrates himself points to the theme of self-serving speeches at the conclusion of Agathon’s speech when he shares his “confusion” for the method of giving praise which was taking place in which the speaker was appearing to “make the rest of us think he is praising Love—not that he actually praise him;” all as a way to make Love seem out of reach to the listener, but something that was well known to the speaker (38).  While Socrates introduces a completely different approach to praising Love it is still in a way that makes it appear to be something Socrates knows well and works to serve his image of the master.

Maybe Plato sees the master Socrates at his work though.  He places one last speaker, Alchibades, after Socrates.  Who speaks after the master?  Alchibades comes to the party, late, drunk and not quite on his own two feet.  He comes to sit on the couch with Agathon and is disturbed when he finds Socrates there and immediately becomes jealous.  A suggestion comes up to allow Alchibades to make a praise as well—however while the object of praise for the evening had been Love, he is asked to make a praise of Socrates—which for Alchibades apparently was Love. 

His speech starts out as sounding like anything but praise for Socrates, as he recounts all the times his attempts at getting Socrates to show him the signs of a lover failed.  He goes as far as to say he would be happier if Socrates were dead.  He points out what we see in Socrates’ earlier in the story—that Socrates “likes to say that he is ignorant and knows nothing” (68).  It is not only Alchibades pointing this out, it is Plato.  It is not until the very last few sentences that Alchibades speaks that we hear, that Socrates’ arguments are “truly worthy of a god” and “of the greatest—importance for anyone who wants to become a truly good man” (75).

Out of all the speeches, Alcibade, the man who came in late and drunk, had the most selfless speech on love of them all.  Did Plato place this here because it was not a speech on love it was love?  Are his last words a warning from Plato as to the danger of being a blind disciple: “Remember our torments; be on your guard: don’t wait, like the fool in the proverb, to learn your lessons from your own misfortune” (75). 

Reading Steiner’s Afterword, I became very aware of several things; one, being that we would be putting this book down soon and two, that Steiner is confronting what all masters at some point face: a world that may be changing without them.  Still he says hopefully, "Life as we know it could not carry on without [masters and disciples]."  And then adds: "But there are significant changes underway" (179).  And with this, before we put his book down, he will have his final lesson.
This brings me back to childhood for a moment.  My dad liked to read us a short story called "The Last Class" by Alphonse Daudet.  Like many fables "intended" for children, it carried a pretty heavy message—one that I scarcely could grasp at the time.  After reading the afterword, and feeling sentimental about Steiner’s last words, I decided to revisit this short French tale that takes place in 1873 prior to the Prussian occupation of Alsace and Lorrain, and really read it.  And read it—with the idea in mind that it is not just the teacher’s last class; it is the final class of Steiner’s master. 

Our disciple in this story is a young boy name Frantz who is faced with the decision between skipping school to be a part of the lovely day brimming with sunshine and blackbirds or attending school to be examined on his knowledge of the participle.  Frantz feels his master’s pull however, and opts for the participles—and once his mind is made up, he doesn’t meander, he books it to school (this is dedication!).  It is the adults along the way who tell him he doesn’t need to rush—school’s not going anywhere.

It is on his path to school that he observes a gathering around the town bulletin board—the one that always bears the bad news.  But with the thought of facing Monsieur Hamel’s iron stick, and even worse, his disappointment, he hurries past.

Once in the classroom, he expects to receive what he thinks he deserves, but instead finds the class is silent "like a Sunday morning," and that Monsieur Hamel is not the least bit upset.  As the Monsieur speaks gently to him, Frantz notices he is wearing his finest clothing and that there are adults from the town perched on benches in the back, notebooks in hand. 

The Monsieur ascends his platform and informs the class that this will be his last class as there is no more French to be taught; from now on, only German.  And that a new teacher will be taking his place.  At this, thoughts fly through Frantz’s head—he doesn’t know how to write yet and may ever know now.  How could they!  Guilt and regret burden his young body—why did he ever miss class or not pay attention?  His heavy books seemed now "like old friends—from whom [he] should be terribly grieved to part."  It all became clear now, to little Frantz, what it all meant. 

And as Monsieur Hamel begins to speak to the class, he too questions aloud the times that opportunities to study were missed for other activities.  He takes the chance to share life lessons with the class—things he had always felt were important, but somehow, he felt, never got relayed in his daily lessons.  The class was never more attentive and the teacher was never so patient.   He puts words to his innermost thoughts on the importance of their French tongue as "it was the most beautiful language in the world, the most clear, the most substantial; [and] that…[they must] never forget it, because [according to Monsieur] when a people falls into servitude, "so long as it clings to its language, it is as if it held the key to its prison.""

From time to time during the during the writing lesson, Frantz looks up at his teacher and imagines what is happening behind his pensive stare at the objects on his desk.  All those years of teaching to come to this, he thinks.

The fable comes to a close as the clock strikes twelve and the master rises one last time "pale as death."  Unable to speak, he writes his last words on the blackboard.  And not being able to turn around to look at his class one last time, he dismisses them with his hand.

George Steiner, almost seventy years after Daudet’s story of Frantz, finds himself as a child, leaving France a month before the Nazi occupation of Paris.  Steiner in his 2007 interview, reports that even in New York City he remained faithful to his native French language by attending a French Lycee.  And in his final thoughts in Lessons of the Masters this tone of longing for things past, but also recognizing what is to come, rings through.  The "sovereignty of the scientific," the "patriarchal structure inherent in the relations of the Master to the disciple…receding," and the current "age of irreverence," as Steiner calls it, are all taking the ideas of the master and disciple to new places.  Still Steiner doesn’t leave us here.  He tells us after all of our hand wringing and confusion that teaching is "satisfaction beyond compare" and that "there is no craft more privileged" (183,84).  Steiner had a lot of other things to say in this book—rightfully so, he was engaged in his argument—but this is what Steiner has been wanting to sing all along.  And like Monsieur Hamel, he says what he has been meaning to say and then leaves us with only writing—admitting that "argument should end in poetry" (184).

Why is it that we don’t get to the heart of our lessons until we are at the end?  The last day of class I would always read my class the Nelson Mandela speech containing Marianne William’s "It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us."  As they would walk out the door I would hand them a rose (and thinking of this now, after reading Steiner, I wonder what this meant?).  Why is it that I never read this at the beginning?  What might happen differently if I did?  Do I fear what could happen if I am too "real" with my students or is there something to be said for having to build up to what I will only know at the end?  The fable of "The Last Class" speaks to the power that every lesson holds in our memories; the teacher and the student both are caught at the end wondering why they ever took study for granted, why they never said what their intentions meant.  Frantz loved his teacher enough to miss a beautiful day for a participle exam; Monsieur Hamel loved his students enough he shared his love for his language with them.   Despite all that I may have thought Steiner was getting at when I first started reading this book, at the end, I am wondering why I didn’t really get it in the beginning.  Then again, I don’t think Steiner intended us to really get it right away.

Ah, Steiner draws a line in the sand.  Young and Old; East and West; Art and Science.  “Two worlds,” “Two traditions.”  Worlds that we mortals must choose between, while the polymath Steiner finds himself “hopelessly vulnerable” as an “outsider” whose lot in life is knowing a lot about everything.  It is hard to feel sorry for the polymath, which might account for the slightly sarcastic tone.  What a place to find yourself in—caught between worlds, where you have the chance to act as a connector, a translator between languages.  

I think if I had to put words to what I want to do with my life, it would be that I want to be a translator. There is never a job listing for the “translator” in the sense that I would want it to mean, so it is a risky aspiration.  I want to be something that doesn’t exist!  This seems to be the position that Steiner finds himself in and he has chosen to write and teach.  This is a good place for the “translator” wannabe to find herself.  Both writing and teaching are fertile grounds on which to search for and find solidarity with even the greatest of opposites.  Both require you to come face to face with opposing forces on a regular basis—there is no hiding.  We have to face our students and our readers (at least if we want to continue writing) who will question us and challenge us.  We are asked to continually revise ourselves; to figure out where we belong; and I am guessing that many of us who pursue these paths find ourselves in the middle—not wanting to choose sides. 

There is no place more polarized than what we call “discussion.”  While we think we are listening to what others are saying, we are really thinking about what we want to say.  It makes me think about when a student in my class says something during a discussion in which the rest of the class cringes.  Rather than avoiding the statement, I try to figure out how to explain to the rest of the class where I think this person is coming from—even if I personally disagree.  It is as if for that moment I am not myself, I am just the translator.  I try to put the words of this student in a way that the rest of the class will understand, not so they will necessarily agree, but so they can share in the fruit which is: knowing beyond oneself—so they can see in another world.  Then when I least expect it, I find students who are doing this for each other.  Through my teaching I hope I am able to model translation.  And this seems greater than any words I could say. 

Maybe this is what we, on the English/humanities side, can take from the sciences, as I think Steiner is trying to point out.  Maybe we can let others learn by watching us and working with us rather than having to keep up an air of the “teacher.”  In the case of Richard Feynman, “it was his own collaboration with them, [the science giants,] rather than formal teaching, that inspired [him]” (167).  I always found it surprising how much my 5^th graders loved when I wrote with them and shared my own writing with them.  This was a vulnerable position to put myself in—my first drafts could be really scary at times, something I didn’t really want to share with anyone.  Images would flash through my head of my students laughing at my misspelled words—what kind of teacher can’t spell!  And thoughts of losing my job when parents heard of my inadequacies ran rampant in my mind.  But every time I did, it went fine.  I was able to take what I knew as an “adult” writer and translate it to the eleven year old writer.  And they always got it. 

Yeats’ poem, “Sailing to Byzantium” which the chapter title Unaging Intellect is borrowed from, is, in short, about the speaker’s desire in his old age to leave the place that seems only for the young.  It is a place that “neglect[s] monuments of unaging intellect.”  Steiner, I believe, sees a place for the sage that is not with other sages, but with the young.  I would suggest the sage cancel his trip to Byzantium.                       

It is good to be home again.  Just as after a long vacation, I find myself asking, now what?  We are dropped back onto America territory in the chapter On Native Ground.  Steiner seems a little uncomfortable here though (hearing the words paideia and football all mashed together makes for interesting reading).  He is quick to point out what we have been thinking all along: “”Master” carries the stain of slavery.” Not only does it hold this image for American culture, but it goes against our independent nature.  Americans shudder for fear of being “mastered” or somehow “owned.”  Of course, we might want to “own” or “master,” but certainly not be the receiver.  We want our talents to be “self made” and not “doctrinally schooled.”  But Steiner is all ready to talk about American masters for a whole chapter, so some sort of master must exist in a culture that intends to deny them.  Steiner has shaped his image of the master (and by now, ours as well) into unrecognizable forms and I am certain he will be making more alterations to the term “master” when he looks at the American culture. 

 We find in Henry James something similar to Nietzsche—a man who is a master without discipleship.  James, however, finds that he needs only to master himself.  As Steiner shares, “[h]is journals read like tutorials of the self, the critic instructing, encouraging…”  His writing is a warning to those who engage in a master/disciple relationship.  The young novelist in The Lesson of the Master is willing to do what the master tells him despite the fact that the master tells him that he is a “weary, wasted used-up animal” and that he should never try to be like him; so the lesson here is to not be like the master, meanwhile, this appears to be all that the disciple wants (125).  Is a master actually mastering the disciple if the disciple does not follow the master’s orders?  But then again, the master is making clear he is not much of a master. 

It reminds me of the idea in the previous chapter of the master “training his disciple for dissent.”  Maybe James is choosing to master only himself as a way of avoiding this dilemma.  Does he believe that there is less harm done if he is “left alone” as his master character states?  In the case of Nietzsche, we cannot say there is no harm done by avoidance.

In Nadia Boulanger we experience the reluctance to master, but we do see what can be done if one chooses to share their knowledge.  And by doing so, she has done much more good than harm.  It appears she did not enter the world of teaching with great joy.  She wanted to compose, but  chose not to as she was in her younger sister’s shadow.  Instead, she “would be nothing but a supreme teacher” (134).  This makes an interesting point for the idea that one must be “called” to teach.  By not being able to do what she wanted to do in life, she “resigned” to the role of the teacher.  Maybe this is where her success as a teacher comes from though—she isn’t trying to be a great teacher and therefore sidesteps some of the common dangers associated with teachers who think that they are great.  I’ve heard many individuals say they never thought they would be a teacher and ended up being one of the best.  It is as if a lack of awareness of the act of teaching leads to more genuine pedagogy.   Boulanger knew music and through this came to know teaching.  She began teaching young and may not have had grand images of what a teacher was supposed to be.  While she may be somewhat “above” her students when it comes to knowledge of music, she certainly has an ability to put herself on the level of her students as a teacher: “May I have the power to exchange your best with my best” (136).  She uses metaphors to describe her role as the teacher that beg the image of a humble servant, a patient farmer: “The teacher is but the humus in the soil.  The more you teach, the more you keep in contact with life and its positive results” and “When I teach, I throw out the seeds.  I wait to see who grabs them…”(136, 137).  This is how she “spellbinds” her students—who would expect someone so ordinary to do something so extraordinary? 

This may be the persona of the teacher that sells with the American public.  One who masters by not appearing to master.  Master without the pomp and circumstance.  Steiner’s discussion of Knute Rockne exhibits this effective lack of “superiorness” as well.  Rockne was a master who acted as if he was on the same level as his team: he “regarded his disciples as family.  He maintained close personal touch…”(139).  Yet, his coaching philosophy went on to transform the world of football and he inspired two hundred of his own athletes to become coaches themselves. 

In some way, this reminds me of the advertisements for being a Big Sister/Brother.  Something about that you don’t have to be perfect, you just have to know how to be yourself.  We imagine the master as this perfect, “supreme” being and we fear being that.  Not only do we fear it, we don’t imagine that we can be that way.  We have Socrates, Jesus and Knute Rockne for competition.  Maybe that is where we go wrong.  We forget that most of our masters and teachers are just people.  People who are willing to be themselves to other people.  And when we are ourselves, we are putting ourselves in danger.

Seekers

A philosophy student friend of mine and I were making the dark and winding journey back from Big Sky one January evening when he suddenly broke the tense silence that had been lingering for the last twenty minutes.  “It is all really down to two choices.”  I looked at him apprehensively, knowing that he had been working on this for the last twenty minutes, while I had been thinking about something like a really crispy piece of cheese pizza, and prepared myself jump on board his train of thought—wherever it was at that moment.

“Do you choose to pursue knowledge or peace?” He shot out.  “Because really, that is what it comes down to in life.”

I had never been asked a question quite like this before and had no instant answer.  And at the time, I didn’t know where a question like this had come from.  But in Steiner, we find ourselves facing some sort of a similar dilemma.  As Dr. Sexson and KJ posed to us at the end of class, what is the relationship between knowledge and faith?  Can a person pursue both whole heartedly?  Or does one eventually fall to the other in the end?

We hear in Steiner a cautionary tone, and yet a somewhat approving tone toward the adamant pursuit of knowledge.  And yet, he himself is a member of the Jewish faith.  He uses both those who have pursued primarily knowledge, as well as those who have pursued primarily faith (I use these knowing they cannot in truth be completely defined or separated) to explore the nature of the Master.   Both, in some way could be considered on a search for Truth/truth.  Steiner points out, that to pursue knowledge is to be in a constant state of grasping for something that can never be completely known: “Neither human will nor systematic exploration can attain the final mysteries or any complete grasp of natural phenomena.  Frustration is inscribed in reason,” (65).  For the most part, this could also apply to the idea of faith.  As Saint John Chrysostom wrote, “Let us invoke him as the inexpressible God, incomprehensible, invisible, and unknowable… He eludes the grasp of every mortal intelligence.”

As I find the question of the “relationship between faith and knowledge” to be a sticky one, I see the best way to go about exploring this idea is to observe how those individuals we are reading about seek knowledge or faith—how does their relationship appear to the reader?  We cannot be too certain about the pursuits of a person as in the case of Steiner.

Socrates supposedly made a “commitment to the life of the mind.”  But he was also known for his constant ability to contradict himself.  As Steiner says, “Certain Church Fathers were to concern in Socrates a creature of the devil; others hailed him as sanctified” (24).  However, in Plato’s, The Apology, we hear Socrates stating that, “the word of God…out to be considered first” and claiming he is “obedient to the god.”  This could be viewed from several different angles however.  Possibly Socrates knew that this sort of rhetoric would be most impactful to his listeners.   

It is difficult to label Jesus as a “faith seeker” because this depends on how a person views Jesus, but if Jesus has to be on a team, let's say it's the faith side of things.  So now I am wondering what knowledge is for Jesus?  Does he seek it out as well?  I could look at the idea that Jesus took up a calling to carpentry as a way of seeking out to know how to construct.  “Isn’t this the carpenter’s son? Isn’t his mother’s name Mary, and aren’t his brothers James, Joseph, Simon and Judas?” Matthew 13:54-56.  If Joseph was a carpenter and had to pass his trade down to Jesus, wouldn’t there be some knowledge passed down from a Master carpenter to a disciple?

While it may be easy to read Steiner and find many examples of those who sought out the life of the Master in return for eternal damnation—we have to remember, this is just one perspective.  It seems to me that true masters are able to live in the realm of both faith and knowledge if they so choose to.  I believe that to be able to successfully pursue peace, there has to be knowledge behind it.  Ghandi knew law before he was able to promote his idea of non-violence.  Dr. Martin Luther King received his Doctorate in Philosophy of Systematic Theology before he became a key figure in the Civil Right’s Movement.  It was Budda who was known for stating:

Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. Do not believe anything because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything because it is written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and the benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.

Considering the "Calling"

I was thinking of Mary as I opened my Steiner this morning. I was thinking how she was called on to be the mother of Jesus.  She is being asked by one above her to do something that she believes is beyond her capabilities, just as a master would ask of a disciple.  Steiner talks about the summons to be a master with a spoken question: “Why are you calling me, what would you have me do?” as a recognition of that call (17).  In Luke, Mary asks a question of the angel who is speaking to her—the same kind of “why me?” question.  “How will this be, since I am a virgin?” she asks fearfully (Luke 1:34).  Mary, however, is being called to be a disciple of the Lord and not a “master” in this case. 

Are disciples then, to receive a calling to be a follower?  Are students called to be a learner?  Is the “summons” essential to the disciple as well as the master? 

Both master and disciple are a necessary role in the drama of education as Steiner describes it.  Each has to be engaged to fulfill their relationship role.  Why then, do we (or maybe it’s just me) think that Steiner is making the distiction between one is "called" and the other is there by some less noble reason.  To be summoned has an air of mystery and power surrounding it.  As Steiner says, “The teacher is aware of his magnitude and, if you will, mystery of his profession” (17).  Are we to believe then, that summons are only for those who are about to do great things and that this privilege is not for the student?

We do see disciples, those who are faithful to a master, who chose to be in a pact, as if they were asked.  In many cases, it seems that it is the Master who is the summoner.  In The Manuscript Found in Saragossa Alphonse is bound to his master to the point of putting himself in harm’s way to fulfill his master’s wishes.  King Phillip V had “graciously bestowed on [him] a commission” and he was “bound by the sacred laws of honor to take the shortest route to Madrid without considering whether it was the most dangerous” (6).  Alphonse was called and he responded.  In fact, he was willing to give his life for his master.   This seems pretty noble.

Is the difference then that Steiner makes of masters and disciples and how they are called, is that one is summoned through a divine power and the other through a mortal being?  How can they be so separate in their calling when the master who is called by the divine is now somewhat divine and through calling their students to take part in the mystery of learning the student is receiving a divine calling as well.   

If there is a summoning required to be a master or disciple, then there are those who are neither disciple or master.