Something of Myself
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
missing chris terribly. dug up the following of my HDD. this was written immediately after he died: the feelings are still the same -
Since hearing of Chris’s death the world has become a surreal place. In part my feelings are selfish – I wanted to learn so much more from this man, grow through further exposure to his vast expertise and unbridled passion. I wanted to hear him recite swathes of poetry and prose in that exuberant, excited voice of his; wanted to come out of more seminars loving texts that I had previously struggled with (or even hated reading). I wanted to continue to marvel at how his long legs wrapped over and around each other beneath the desk, like enormous pipe-cleaners; to watch his expansive gesticulations as he strode around the lecture hall, never needing the microphone (fortunately, for he simply could not stand statically behind the rostrum). Above all I wanted to discover if there were any Victorian writers he could not quote off the top of his head.
Imagine him taking the lecture today, pacing about in his usual excited manner. He probably had an invisible adhesive that kept us glued to our seats. No student will experience his great lectures any more; no more will students, and colleagues alike marvel at the sheer enormity of his knowledge. I’ve never seen such passion for a subject and it used to leave a lump in the throat even then.
Chris was a man of many words, not one of them wasted. How then is it I struggle to find adequate words of my own to express my sense of loss? Maybe because I was so used to looking to him for the effortless answers: about identity and Dickens, about the 19th Century, about Victorianism, about Marxism, about how to roll a proper cigarette in one hand, about the best pub in Devon, about what was wrong with England’s cricket team (and capitalist society). The questions will remain unanswered.
Since hearing of Chris’s death the world has become a surreal place. In part my feelings are selfish – I wanted to learn so much more from this man, grow through further exposure to his vast expertise and unbridled passion. I wanted to hear him recite swathes of poetry and prose in that exuberant, excited voice of his; wanted to come out of more seminars loving texts that I had previously struggled with (or even hated reading). I wanted to continue to marvel at how his long legs wrapped over and around each other beneath the desk, like enormous pipe-cleaners; to watch his expansive gesticulations as he strode around the lecture hall, never needing the microphone (fortunately, for he simply could not stand statically behind the rostrum). Above all I wanted to discover if there were any Victorian writers he could not quote off the top of his head.
Imagine him taking the lecture today, pacing about in his usual excited manner. He probably had an invisible adhesive that kept us glued to our seats. No student will experience his great lectures any more; no more will students, and colleagues alike marvel at the sheer enormity of his knowledge. I’ve never seen such passion for a subject and it used to leave a lump in the throat even then.
Chris was a man of many words, not one of them wasted. How then is it I struggle to find adequate words of my own to express my sense of loss? Maybe because I was so used to looking to him for the effortless answers: about identity and Dickens, about the 19th Century, about Victorianism, about Marxism, about how to roll a proper cigarette in one hand, about the best pub in Devon, about what was wrong with England’s cricket team (and capitalist society). The questions will remain unanswered.
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