From the City of Aquatint 12

Mention here of what my reading had convinced me Oxford was about, intellectual conversations late into the night. There were some of those, but most fun was more mundane.

It was fascinating to look at the internet record of the Oedipus performance, and recall the names of some of the actors. I have already shown Mel Smith and Faynia Williams, the best known, along with the director Elijah Moshinsky. Sadly I could not find a picture of his wife, Ruth Dittman, who played Jocasta. But I think I have identified the wonderful Welsh chorus, Glyn Welden, looking as he looked then (though he had added Banks to his name); the stolidly ambitious Creon, Peter Wight; and the dignified messenger Hugh Sykes, whose long face came back to me when I saw it in older guise, who it seems had a distinguished career as a journalist.

26th February 1972

I’m at the 11th volume of Proust at the moment, unfortunately in English – I’ve been told the translation’s terrible, but the whole effect is marvelous except that at times I wish he’d contain himself. Albertine’s just died and there’s a hundred pages of melancholy reflections. Anyway he’s also helped me to meet Jeremy, someone whom I can look up to intellectually – the first of my own age for I don’t know how long – though it does involve things like wondering helplessly for hours whether heterologic is heterologic if you define it as not heterologic – sheer fascination.  I suppose the reason why I’ve found talking till all hours of the morning before this, if interesting, not quite as fascinating as it sounds in Virginia Woolf, was simply this horrible feeling of superiority which, while I know it’s quite unjustified, I can’t help having – considering that on any given essay topic, due to sheer ignorance, I can only think of half as much to say as the other scholars.

‘Oedipus’ has got into the costume stage now and – surprise,surprise – I’m still in it. It’s marvelous watching Oedipus being splattered with blood, Creon swathed in what looks like a bath towel, waiting to take over Oedipus’ velvet cloak, the trim and dainty Jewish Jocasta stamping excitedly on the Chorus’ costume to get it dirty, and the messenger in ancient costume with dark glasses carefully placing sweat, in the form of coffee, on the shepherd’s costume. Unfortunately Teiresias and her carriage together are somewhat heavy but so far I’ve managed to survive till the end of the scene. I’m not going to be balded though, luckily, unlike the other two parts of Teiresias.

Last night, due to a lack of players, due in turn to potential power cuts, University bridge was cancelled and we played rubber bridge with the county – the old ladies who are supposed to scratch your eyes out according to our Dean. They seemed quite nice though, and I won threepence. Of course, needless to say, we lost in the first round of the College Championship last Sunday – ‘Cuppers’ – and I can’t really blame the rest of the team because I’d fallen asleep and missed dinner and got up to suddenly realize I had to play competitively in a few moments and, by the time we started, I was in a thoroughly bad mood.. The nice thing though is that we all found it extremely funny, which is better than feeling miserable.

On Thursday, the Victoria League struck again – the collection of dotty old ladies with cats called ‘Thomasina’ who uphold the commonwealth – very nice people really, though they did issue invitations to a supper party so that I signed off dinner, and then produced coffee and biscuits. However, they sent a car for me – a Canadian Professor of English on Sabbatical, Merton and a pupil of the famous – just to make sure you know her, no one else does –  Dame Helen Gardener – during whose lecture on the ‘Waste Land’ I regret to say I fell asleep. Anyway after five minutes of everyone patting Thomasina, the conversation went with a swing and I’ve even issued two invitations to tea – with five pounds left of my quota for the term, I suppose I can afford to be extravagant – though I have been crunching glass this past week due to a constitutional inability to throw away a bottle of peanut butter that broke.

I saw a decent student production this week, Bond’s ‘Early Morning’, with the sadistic Victorians engaging in high jinks, by St. Cat’s and the Polytechnic. Despite prejudices as to these modern institutions, it was good. In a few moments I’ve got to be at Oriel for their Summer production of Aristophanes’ ‘Frogs’ – I’ve got the two-minute part of Charon. Unfortunately today’s read through means missing the Ceylon Students’ party this evening  at the Gooneratnes’.