AN OXFORD PILGRIM
As I neared the college, dragging my oversized Samsonite – thunk, thunk, thunk – over narrow cobblestone streets, and flanked by 700-year-old stone walls, I felt vaguely intimidated. Before arriving, I’m embarrassed to admit, I felt a little cocky. After all, I had been teaching literature and creative writing for over 15 years, just published a critically acclaimed book (The Mexican Messiah), and considered myself well read. Surely, I would distinguish myself – even at Oxford. But as I stood before Exeter College’s front quadrangle and considered the medieval chapel, the ivy-covered facades, and the ancient stones worn smooth beneath my feet, I was struck with awe and humility. The stones themselves, it dawned on me, first laid in 1314, had been trod upon by none other than Tolkien, Will Self, Alfred Noyes, and one of my personal heroes, Martin Amis.
My room, a simple affair of a bed, sink, and small study, overlooked Broad Street, the iconic Blackwell’s Bookstore, and the Martyr’s Cross, where in 1515 three Protestants were burned alive. History lurked wherever I looked, even outside my window.
When the great clock looming over the courtyard struck seven, I rushed to Fellows Garden for the cocktail reception to mark the start of the program. I’m not sure what I expected, but I was astonished to find students from all parts of the world – Israel, Italy, France, Germany, Russia, Argentina… and all, it became abundantly clear, were as experienced and accomplished literary scholars as I.
I had registered for two advanced courses, Creative Non-Fiction and Fiction: Fine-Tuning Your Writing – each meeting twice a week for two hours. If there was any remnant of cockiness left in me, it was quickly swept away. My understanding of the term well read, I soon realized, was entirely subjective, as my professors had read seemingly everything, and readily quoted from classics, as if they were laid open before them.
Having not been a student for close to forty years, I had forgotten what homework actually entailed. For one assignment, we were expected to read 80 pages overnight and prepare to discuss it. Halfway through the reading, as midnight approached, I fell fast asleep. The next morning in class, certain the tutor would call on me – and sweating bullets – I recognized exactly how my own students must feel when I call on them. And, yes, the tutor did call on me: “Jay, so what do you think?” I don’t remember what I answered – some bumbling response about the author’s prose – and, after class, promptly changed into a fresh shirt.
Perhaps more than anything else, I drew from this experience a better understanding of how to manage a classroom. The instructors (tutors) were masterful and keenly adept at reading and engaging the room, making sure that each student was on point. And God forbid if a student was not focused, as the tutor invariably targeted anyone whose attention lapsed. It’s a matter of intensity, I’ve learned, and tempo, and of keeping students on their toes.
When not in class, I toured the other colleges and historic sites, took long runs along the Thames, visited 13th century pubs and joined trivia games and karaoke night with my classmates. But what will stay with me more than anything else are the hours I spent sitting and writing in the Radcliffe Camera, one of the many timeless Bodleian Libraries sprinkled around Oxford. This magnificent circular structure ascends from the center of Oxford, its sand-colored walls glowing amber as it catches and reflects the evening sun. And inside, the great cathedral-like room rises floor-after-floor, flooded with light, its every curved surface lined with books, to its domed ceiling. I found myself visiting the library daily, like a pilgrim or a devotee, soaking up the very air where countless illustrious writers and literary scholars have come before me.
