sun-lit days..

Its been years since I've written anything about literature (or even thought about lit. for that matter) but of late, I've been thinking more and more about my days in Loyola..

The life of a literature student is something else. You bunk most classes (since a lot of those profs don't really teach you much anyways), you drink several cups of coffee, discuss beat poetry and the absurdist tradition while going out for a smoke at the nearest potti kadai, you skip lunch and head to the library, where you turn the pages of huge moth-eaten volumes that have last been checked out in 1939 (this is no exaggeration - the Loyola library has a copy of Hamlet that was last taken out in that very year). The musty smell of those books are enough to give you a thrill down your spine - because you suddenly feel like you're connected to something bigger than yourself.. That people who have lived and died have turned the same pages and read the same words...

The best part about the library is the silence. There is something magical about silence, undeniably. It leaves you no option but to think... and when your thought process is being galvanized by the greatest minds, as they critique the greatest writers, you suddenly feel elevated to that level.

But the greatest part about the whole exercise is the process of discovering layers. I think when you discover new layers of meaning in a literary text, that is the moment of convergence between math and english, which are (unjustly in my opinion) often set as polar opposites. When you discover, to take a well quoted example, that Robert Frost, when speaking about stopping by the woods on a snowy evening, was actually referring to the feeling you get when you're in the twilight of your life, and you know you don't have very long to go, you feel that thrill of discovery. As though you were the first person in the world who realised what the poet is actually talking about. And i always feel, this is similar to figuring out the chords to a song on your own on the guitar, particularly when you're just learning how to play, and its all new to you. Similar to when you solve a math equation without the help of a guide....

equally pleasurable, is finding someone to discuss lit. with. Craig and i would often go to the bus stop opposite loyola, and our discussion over a smoke (and possibly tea) could range from the curious accent that some of our profs adopted when reading out a text, to symbolism in t. s. eliot's wasteland, or the brilliant statement made by oku onuora when he wrote his poems in some caribbean creole instead of conforming, and writing poetry in english.

occasionally, you'd get a lecture from one of the better profs, that would kindle the fire within you... fr. peter francis, for example, who breathed life into shakespeare's characters with a brilliant impersonation of Falstaff... it's hard to get that humour unless you see it, after all...
britto, who would slouch to class and teach literature as though it were lab chemistry. he would jot down every point on the board, entirely from memory, in the most matter of fact way possible... he almost seemed bored by the whole thing, but somehow, just his thorough knowledge of the subject and the precision of his method left you wanting more..

when i started this post, i was intending to write something about my thoughts on existentialism - but my intended introduction has formed itself into a post... the nostalgia just caught me unawares.

but what to do... that is the life - being a lit. student.. living everyday with the greatest minds the world produced... i hope i can go back to it some day.