Robertson Davies

Part of the fun of temporarily moving into another person's home is that if they are a reader, there is a good chance you're going to find some new treasures, maybe even a whole new world to inhabit. My friend Beth has not disappointed me. My new discovery is Robertson Davies, a Canadian novelist, playwright, essayist, and university professor who died in 1995 (what a distinguished looking old goat!) I am reading the first book out of a collection of three books called The Cornish Trilogy.

The first book is titled The Rebel Angels. The back jacket cover is elusive in its description of the book's content, but it gives a clue to the character-driven nature of the novel:

Simon Darcourt, a goodhearted priest and scholar...Clement Hollier, a professor with a passion for the darker side of medieval psychology...the defrocked monk John Parlabane...Arthur Cornish, a rich young businessman who inherits some troublesome paintings and manuscripts...and Maria Theotoky, the beguiling graduate student who exerts a strange power over all these men. Davies weaves together this remarkable cast of characters, creating a wise and witty portrait of love, murder, and scholarship at a modern university.

It's not worth trying to describe it beyond that because nothing I could say would make it sound interesting or compelling. But it is. It is great. The characters are wonderfully and fully realized. It is fabulously written and it actually feels like it the longer it goes, the better and more complex it gets. I can actually imagine the plot arc of a novel like this taking three books to realize. We'll see. I'm only 190 pages into it. I do want to whet your appetite with what I believe are a couple of really well-written passages.

I am hard at the great task with the person who lies nearest and who is most amenable to my best efforts, and perhaps by example I may persuade a few others to do the same. Oh, endless task! One begins with no knowledge except that what one is doing is probably wrong, and the right path is heavy with mist. When I was a hopeful youth I set myself to the Imitation of Christ, and like a fool I supposed that I must try to be like Christ in every possible detail, adjure people to do the right when I really didn't know what the right was, and get myself spurned and scourged as frequently as possible. Crucifixion was not a modern method of social betterment, but at least I could push for psychological crucifixion, and I did, and hung on my cross until it began to dawn on me that I was a social nuisance and not a bit like Christ.

I love Davies' reflections on the profession of teaching.

The principle excuse for my life, I suppose, is that I am a good teacher. But to teach my best I must have some peace of mind, because I do not simply dole out lectures I prepared long ago; I engage my classes, which are never large, in talk and discussion; every year the shape of the work is different, and the result is different, because much depends on me.

And a little bit more from the same voice, that of the main characters, Simon Darcourt, a priest and professor.

Energy and curiosity are the lifeblood of universities; the desire to find out, to uncover, to dig deeper, to puzzle out obscurities, is the spirit of the university, and it is a channeling of that unresting curiosity that holds mankind together. As for energy, only those who have never tried it for a week or two can suppose that the pursuit of knowledge does not demand a strength and determination, a resolve not to be beaten, that is a special kind of energy, and those who lack it or have it only in small store will never be scholars or teachers, because real teaching demands energy as well. To instruct calls for energy, and to remain almost silent, but watchful and helpful, while students instruct themselves, calls for even greater energy. To see someone fall (which will teach him not to fall again) when a word from you would keep him on his feet but ignorant of an important danger, is one of the tasks of the teacher that calls for special energy, because holding in is more demanding than crying out.

Comments

[timsamoff]

We must get to th bottom of this affinity you have for elderly gentlemen with long white beards...

[Tim Keel]

If God grants me the grace of white hair, then like Davies, I will display it in its Gandalf-ian glory...in fact, our friend Mike Brennan comes to mind. Old men should look like this. He looks like he has a head of wisdom.

[Tyler]

Tim~
I enjoy the new design...especially the header - of which I have a question. I've been playing around with some html and other blog servers...I'm semi-satisified with the appearance of mine thus far, however, I was wondering how you got your header (pictures and title at the top) to look the way it does? Is it strictly a movable type thing - or do you think I could play around and produce something to this effect on blogger as well...if so, any ideas how? the former artist in me is getting a bit bored of the less is more, plain jane, white

[Tim Keel]

Thanks, Tyler. Actually, Tim Samoff is the guy you need to ask. I told Tim that I wanted my banner to function like a gallery and that everytime the page loaded, it would display five random pics within a frame. From there Tim figured everything else out. I don't know more than that. I plead the Fifth.

[Tyler]

Tim~
hmmm...foiled again! thanks for the help though - I'll drop by Tim's website and see if he can't offer some suggestions to spice things up...sorry about the car too! They could have at least left a whole sandwich. The manners of common thieves these days

[Clint Walker]

This is strange. I picked up this book because it is on Eugene Peterson's recommended reading list. Started reading it recently as well. I am not as far as you though.

[Tim Keel]

That's cool to know, Clint. It doesn't surprise me. It seems like a book Peterson would love. I hope you enjoy it, too. It keeps getting better. I'm almost ready for the next one.