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.