Erôs and Insight
"We are going into the woods, leaving behind the habitual and familiar.
We will go consciously into the unknown." |
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
5 | An
Introduction to Amherst: First-Year Seminars
Neither Upton nor Zajonc attempts to scrutinize the poem’s meter, nor do
they comment on its symbols or structure. The professors’ agenda, if there
is one, is simply to set a tone and introduce the class’s general theme,
which Upton defines as “awareness and
presence.”
There are more puzzled smiles, some flickers of understanding
and interest, a few dark looks. Zajonc, smiling gently at the range of expressions,
takes over. “This
is an exploration for us as well as you. We’re trying new ways of teaching,
new ways of approaching learning. The T.S. Eliot poem is a call to attention,
a call to the present. See if you notice this call in the excerpt from Walden,
on your handout. Who would like to read the paragraphs here from ‘Where
I Lived and What I Lived For’?”
The students glance at their handouts. An athletic-looking young man in shorts
and a blue T-shirt is the first volunteer, reading softly: “‘The
millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake
enough for effective intellectual exertion….’”
At “intellectual exertion,” every student leans forward. Each is
wondering, perhaps, if he or she will be counted among that one in a million.
They have arrived at the top liberal arts college in the nation, after all; they
have been told, again and again, that they represent the “best and the
brightest.” But Thoreau and Zajonc are after more than “intellectual
exertion.” The next volunteer, a student with a long blond braid and backpack
at her feet, reads: “‘One in a hundred millions [is awake enough]
to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive.’”
A brief pause follows. Some students look distinctly troubled. Does one pass
grueling exams, sweat over research papers and memorize mathematical theorems
in order to have a poetic or divine life? A young woman in the front row chews
worriedly on her pencil; two rows back, a student sighs audibly. Another, in
a brave bid for nonchalance, gives a theatrical shrug.
Unperturbed, Zajonc encourages another student to volunteer.
He reads slowly, savoring the words: ‘“I went to the woods because
I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and
see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover
that I had not lived.’”
There is a short silence as Thoreau’s words resonate in the room. What
does it mean to live deliberately? What are the essential facts of life? Zajonc
gently breaks the silence, bringing the students back to Thoreau’s woods: “Why
did he go there? Where did he go?”
A few more seconds tick by, and then, one by one, hands start
to rise. One student suggests that Thoreau went for spiritual solitude; another
believes he meant to return to nature as a protest against post-industrial American
life. “The
essentials,” someone calls out. “The teachings of life!” another
voice adds. More voices join the discussion, and, within minutes, students are
speaking eagerly, teasing out themes of being awake, conscious, alive—living
outside of mere habits. “One becomes self-authoring,” Zajonc sums
up, “rather than being authored by others.”
“We are going into the woods,” Upton adds, “leaving behind
the habitual and familiar. We will go consciously into the unknown.” Looking
with an intense, blue-eyed gaze at the attentive faces of his students, he continues,
echoing St. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians: “And we will leave
childish things behind.”
Zajonc nods in agreement. Apparently the professors are serious about their students’ embarking
not simply on a new course, but into a new life. Erôs and Insight, Zajonc
explains, will ask more of these young people than simply writing a set of papers
or reading a stack of books. The course also will ask them to consider a new,
adult way of encountering the world and one another, a way of grappling with
philosophical problems beyond the scope of “childish things.”
“But do you have to go the woods?” a thin young man in the back row
wants to know. “Do you have to withdraw from life?”
“This is
a tension,” Zajonc answers, welcoming the question. “We’ll
be exploring this tension in class, living it.”
“The point,” Upton states, striding to the center of the room, “is
not to go into isolation, but to break routine, break habit, do the obverse of
what you were habitually doing.”
“Does that mean I can skip class?” This remark, made by the same
wit who asked during roll if “erôs” could be his major, is
met with appreciative laughter, even by the professors. Irreverence, it seems,
can also be a part of “breaking routine.” But not skipping class,
as Upton is quick to tell the group.
After a short, lively discussion on ways the students can relate their own lives
and experiences to Thoreau, Upton and Zajonc introduce the French resistance
fighter and religious philosopher Simone Weil, who wrote in 1938: “The
human being only escapes from the laws of this world in lightning flashes. Instants
when everything stands still, instants of contemplation, of pure intuition.”
Then,
to illustrate the possibility of such an instant, Upton invites the class to
conclude with a moment of poetry followed by silence. He reads with clear delight
a haiku by the great 17th-century Japanese poet Basho: “Breaking
the silence / of an ancient pond / a frog jumped into the water / a deep resonance.” A
slide projection of a pond in a Japanese garden—quiet, deep greens, splashes
of gold and blue—appears on a screen at the front of the class as Upton
dims the lights. Then another slide, and ripples appear in the water, encircling
a pair of rocks. The students, in silence, gaze at the image.
“Let the words of the poem settle quietly into your mind,” Upton
encourages his students. “Just for one minute, allow yourself to have an
experience with silence by being silent.”
Allow? Judging from the blank expressions on many faces, “allow” is
an unexpected instruction. “Analyze,” “summarize,” “compare
and contrast” are likely more familiar terms. After a beat, the students,
shifting in their seats, gamely give the idea a try. Some stare intently at the
projection; others tentatively close their eyes. The only sound in the room is
the clock ticking its way to 12:50.
“See you Thursday,” Zajonc says softly, careful not to break the
mood. The students slowly gather their belongings, their faces thoughtful, and
file out of the room. Upton and Zajonc, watching them go, stand together at the
front of the classroom. Then Upton moves to the windows and lifts the shades,
letting in squares of yellow light that fall across the empty desks.
“Well?” Upton, eyebrows raised, turns questioningly to his co-professor.
“We’ve begun,” Zajonc replies simply, returning Upton’s
exuberant grin with one of his own.
Continued >>
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