What my diary does not disclose, but what is the fact, is that my attendance at Glendon Hall of York University was largely the result of the efforts of the then Principal, Dr. Escott Reid. Dr. Reid had attended at St. Andrew's sometime in our last year to address the graduating class on the value of applying to Glendon for admission. There is no doubt that he was cultivating a breeding ground for young public servants and foreign emissaries. We found out years later that he had visited many of the other private schools on a similar mission.
An exhausting week of politics is now completed and I stand on the threshold of a very interesting experience. Although I have not met a great many people, I am quite confident that the men and women here are a good lot, and it should be a wonderful year.
I feel myself developing. I am gaining greater control over my emotions and I am using my head to think of the final, rather than the immediate, results.
During the past week, I have had several good times, among which were a dance with Jane Bow, a water-bombing of the prefects at SAC, and a visit to some old boys at Trinity College.
This evening, I did make-up for the first production of the year at Burton Auditorium. I think I'll probably be given the position of chairman of the make-up crew.
Sam (Jane Bow) came by to see me tonight. She's really a nice kid, and I'll probably end up having some good times with her.
It's a strange thought to look forward to the new year. New in some any ways. So different. So wonderful. So promising. I wonder how everything will turn out. September 17, 1967.
My first few months at Glendon were memorable. They combined the pleasant and beautiful surroundings of Glendon Hall with the staid charm of North Toronto. Mixed in with this were the warm and hazy fall days, the ceremony of induction of the Frosch, the rejuvenation of all the good habits I had cultivated at St. Andrew's (study, exercise and music), and the excitement of meeting new people. But by September 21, 1967 I would write "University now appears to be the beginning of my provocations and troubles. The trouble and challenge lies in the burden of freedom with which I must learn to live. Day by day the weight of the burden changes and I must now rely upon common sense rather than routine to guide me." Not unexpectedly, as we stretched our horizons to include Yorkville and other parts of Toronto, we met people whose backgrounds and horizons differed considerably from what I had lived during the previous years of my life. There were, however, regular returns to the past connections and ways of life which buttressed my somewhat privileged experience at St. Andrew's, including visits to St. Andrew's for football games, visits with local families and old friends, and in particular with Keith Forsythe, Bill Grand and the family of Dr. Frank Glassow in Thornhill. The traditions of my past were nonetheless under attack, so to speak.
An exhausting week of politics is now completed and I stand on the threshold of a very interesting experience. Although I have not met a great many people, I am quite confident that the men and women here are a good lot, and it should be a wonderful year.
I feel myself developing. I am gaining greater control over my emotions and I am using my head to think of the final, rather than the immediate, results.
During the past week, I have had several good times, among which were a dance with Jane Bow, a water-bombing of the prefects at SAC, and a visit to some old boys at Trinity College.
This evening, I did make-up for the first production of the year at Burton Auditorium. I think I'll probably be given the position of chairman of the make-up crew.
Sam (Jane Bow) came by to see me tonight. She's really a nice kid, and I'll probably end up having some good times with her.
It's a strange thought to look forward to the new year. New in some any ways. So different. So wonderful. So promising. I wonder how everything will turn out. September 17, 1967.
My first few months at Glendon were memorable. They combined the pleasant and beautiful surroundings of Glendon Hall with the staid charm of North Toronto. Mixed in with this were the warm and hazy fall days, the ceremony of induction of the Frosch, the rejuvenation of all the good habits I had cultivated at St. Andrew's (study, exercise and music), and the excitement of meeting new people. But by September 21, 1967 I would write "University now appears to be the beginning of my provocations and troubles. The trouble and challenge lies in the burden of freedom with which I must learn to live. Day by day the weight of the burden changes and I must now rely upon common sense rather than routine to guide me." Not unexpectedly, as we stretched our horizons to include Yorkville and other parts of Toronto, we met people whose backgrounds and horizons differed considerably from what I had lived during the previous years of my life. There were, however, regular returns to the past connections and ways of life which buttressed my somewhat privileged experience at St. Andrew's, including visits to St. Andrew's for football games, visits with local families and old friends, and in particular with Keith Forsythe, Bill Grand and the family of Dr. Frank Glassow in Thornhill. The traditions of my past were nonetheless under attack, so to speak.
We could not escape the so-called revolution of the sixties. Long hair, casual deportment, the unmistakable influence of drugs on people we met in the streets, and the sexual awakening of the era. Buried in all this environmental cloud was a similar stirring of new ideas within. I began to question my Anglican Christian training; my views of my old Masters at St. Andrew's; my relationship with others and with myself:
I'm so mixed up about freedom that I don't know which way is free, and I am debating not freedom but outward appearance. I suppose the one thing I absolutely must bring myself to understand is either this whole business is too petty to worry about, or I must give up something to gain something else.
Now, inhibition is obviously unhealthy, and it is the source of a great deal of anxiety, despair, and absolute disgust with myself. I must understand that it is only another song which I must not sing. But it comes in such attractive packages. But DAMN! It's all so phony! So unreal! I'm only making up a worthless image. But the image keeps coming back to me in a real form. It seems so pleasant and casual and realistic. The point is, once you're inhibited, you're trapped - trapped for good, and everything else seems so useless when you have lost your freedom. This is probably the most difficult and most useless decision I'll ever have to make in life.
I'm Prufrock all over again. God! I'm caught up in images and impressions, but I simply can't take my mind off them all. October 18, 1967.
Rousseau said something to the effect that if you remove a man's freedom of will, you remove the morality of his actions; in his natural state, man is a slave of his passions; only when man acts under self-imposed laws, is he free. November 15, 1967.
The romance of the period was also evident:
In youth it is such a tremendous thing to know that one has the possibility of changing, of improving, of being spontaneous, and it is so great to know the whole world is at your hands. Tonight Jane and I spent two very, very enjoyable hours at the Moulin Rouge. Gin fizz, pate de foie, canard, café et Porto. It was just tremendous! We talked about many things and I was very happy. Tonight, I want to be better - and I am so happy when I know that I can still be better. December 1, 1967.
The theme of being "better" had, I believe, tempered from the less noble goal of "being better than others" to "being better than I was before". To an extent, I have always harbored this desire, not out of displeasure with who I am or what I have, but rather out of a genuine desire to cultivate and improve wherever possible. At times, laziness and lack of conviction have dampened the spirit. And I have to admit to more than a usual degree of commitment to old habits and routine, which has done little to accelerate any modification of behaviour:
It's been an awful day, and the only thing that prevents me from being completely upset is the hope that I have tomorrow. My biggest worry is smoking, and I hereby swear that I will not smoke again until my twenty-first birthday, under any circumstances, and I shall avoid alcohol as much as possible (the damn stuff simply dries out my brain). February 6, 1968.
Today was filled with dreams, and hopes that someday I will achieve them. I often wonder whether human beings were always meant to be unsatisfied - and I don't mean unhappy. Unsatisfied. Never content with what we have. I am definitely a man of second thoughts. Delayed though. Just late enough to be a nuisance. February 26, 1968.
The latter part of my first year at Glendon (from March to the year-end) seems to have been filled with preoccupations about learning about others and myself; and a "spring-time" type of romance with Martha Davis, whom I have seen infrequently but regularly over the years. She was (and still is) a very attractive woman, and equally aggressive (I believe she was the real estate rookie of the year in Vancouver, where she started that particular career). I later (summer of 1968) came to know her parents (Henry and Sue), who are distinctly bright and happy people, as are Martha and their other children, Jane, Tom and Anne. I have many fond memories of the Davis family, each one being packed with humour and vitality. The entire family seems to be connected to some bottomless pit of energy that spills over into everything they do.
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