A few weeks ago, I decided to delve into a new branch of
literature as I picked up the autobiographical travel novel of Patrick Leigh
Fermor, A Time of Gifts. As I write
this blog entry, I am halfway through the sequel, Between the Woods and the Water,
and thoroughly hooked. Written in 1977, A
Time of Gifts is the first instalment in a trilogy narrating his journey from
Holland to Constantinople, which he embarked upon as a perspicacious 18 year
old in 1933. Unsure of what to expect at first, it quickly became apparent that
I had fortuitously stumbled upon not only a well-written, fascinating book, but
one which is unique. Fermor’s capacity for truly mesmerising descriptions of
landscape, and evocative recreation of people and places, combine to produce a
piece of writing which does not merely allow the reader to imagine his journey,
but to experience it. The narrative saunters along at a leisurely pace like a
continental stream meandering through woodland and field, as Fermor’s style reflects
his own unhurried approach to this adventure; as he did not rush through the
Great Hungarian Plain and along the Danube’s tributary paths, so too does he
not wish for the reader to hasten through his work. At times, the plethora of historic
detail which accompanies explanations of visited regions threatens to make your
head hang in despairing ignorance, but I think that this also is a deliberate
device of Fermor. As one who passed through adolescence in the shelter of an
English boarding school, many of the places along the way will have been completely
alien to him, and so the author ingeniously replicates this feeling by sharing the
concomitant, esoteric details of the journey. A Time of Gifts discourages the parochial and impatient reader, but
if one comes along with an inquisitive and imaginative mind, they will find the
work of Patrick Leigh Fermor as enlightening, inspiring and enjoyable as I do.
"...all trace of the capital and the western hills had vanished .We were in the middle of a limitless space" Patrick Leigh Fermor on the Great Hungarian Plain
This in itself would be enough to convince me on Artemis
Cooper’s adulation of Fermor as a ‘travel writer hailed as the best of his time’,
but there is another quality which draws me to his writing even more; it exudes
an erudition which indicates the hand of an uncontested polymath. His grasp of
pre-war European culture, languages, history, society, geography, flora and fauna,
and etiquette, as well as an impressive knowledge of Latin and an enviable
memory, continue to amaze me as I turn the pages, engrossed in the art of such
an admirable man. The radical French political E. Herriot once said ‘la
culture, c’est ce qui reste quand on a tout oublié’ (culture is what is left
when everything else is forgotten), and nobody advocates the merits of this
quotation as strongly as Fermor. As a student of the arts myself, I have been inspired by his his thirst
for knowledge and perennial curiosity to take a leaf out of his
book and pursue the same level of attentiveness in my own life. Books always
resonate strongly in me when their messages remain indelibly imprinted in my
mind long after reading the final sentence, and Fermor’s travel novels do just
that. The account of a boy (or man, I suppose I should say) embarking upon such
an ambitious journey, and showing such an interest in all aspects of every
visited country, is even more striking when many 18 year olds of this day and
age are preparing to head off to University to spend the proceeding three or
four years studying only one subject. Even before this stage, the education
system of the modern day encourages very early specialisation, forcing 15 year
olds to begin the process of narrowing down their interests. Now, subject
choices are to be made with one (or, quite frankly, both) eyes firmly fixed on
future career paths, to the point that choosing a variety of arts and sciences
is seen as a detrimentally ‘confused’ decision. “What job wants those A Levels?”,
“You can’t do Art and Music, that’s too many soft choices.” If I had one pound
for every time I heard statements such as these in the past few years, I would
have enough to lay aside any money worries and enjoy a trans-European cultural
pilgrimage myself!
But the responsibility for endorsing insular minds at such
an early stage of life cannot be apportioned to schools, or even the education
system. Rather, it is the job market itself which demands extreme
specialisation for any chance of aspiring to lofty career-ladder heights. In a
capitalist market which demands success and amelioration to cope with the
ever-increasing competition across the globe, as long as you are good at the
skills required by your job, that is enough. The well-rounded scholar comes
second to the computer whizz whose sole fictional experience was reading the
last page of Of Mice and Men for GCSE
English. Why waste time developing an awareness of the geographical location of
each country on the planet, when a 3D Interactive Atlas is two clicks away on
Google? Like it or not, this is the reality of today’s epoch: one which has
contrived a filter for ‘useful’ and ‘useless’ knowledge and fails to reward
those who strive to broaden themselves unless it directly results in improved
performance in the work environment. It is one which deters the next Patrick
Leigh Fermor, yet paradoxically one which still remembers the distant, immortal
names of Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo in awe. The truth is that these
polymaths are seen as having led an atavistic, and now unrealistic, lifestyle
incompatible with the demands of modernity.
Leonardo da Vinci: painter, sculptor, architect, scientist, musician, mathematician, engineer, inventor, geologist, astrologist, botanist, writer, and historian. The ultimate Renaissance Man
I do not, however, believe that all hope is crushed by the
necessities of the age for those who still see the merit in becoming (or, at
the least, endeavouring to be) a polymath. In actual fact, I see the real
threat as being the influx of other distractions, which tease away the limited
free-time which we do have. After a draining day of studying or work, for most
people, the enticement of the television, computer or Playstation dwarfs that
of the dusty collection of Romantic poetry on the bookshelf or political
philosophy article open on page one on the study desk. It’s more accessible. It’s
less demanding. It’s easier. It’s not a temptation which da Vinci had to deal
with in the fifteenth Century, nor Fermor in the twentieth. It is, however, one
which must be overcome in order to achieve the scholarly prowess of a polymath,
or a well-rounded individual in general. Choose the book or the instrument. Don’t
spend all your time refreshing the twitter timeline.
So go on, give it a go. Generally, it’s better to approach
the day as a Berlin fox than as a hedgehog (The Hedgehog and the Fox). If you need the instigating
spark of motivation, pick up a copy of Fermor’s A Time of Gifts. It worked for me and, even if it doesn’t for you,
I can guarantee that, at the very least, you will enjoy the read. Strive to self-improve, wield an
unquenchable thirst for knowledge and an understanding about the world around
us, and broaden your horizons; even if it is something which is wrongfully
undervalued in the modern day, the skills which it develops and the discipline required
are indubitably going to help in your everyday life. And even if they don’t, it
will be thoroughly rewarding all the same, and you will enjoy it.
No comments:
Post a Comment