For some reason, I stopped writing my diary in Lower Sixth Form (1965 - 1966). What I remember of the Lower Sixth Form was that I began it by taking up residence with Fred Duggan as a House Captain in MacDonald House (the Lower School). Fred was not exactly an intellectual, so that perhaps curtailed my interest in keeping a diary somewhat. As well, I was developing an increased interest in my daily tasks with other people, apart from my historical concern about my own personal undertakings. Anyway, the next entry in the little green plastic covered diary is on November 8, 1966:
In the two years that have passed since I last wrote in this book, I have been to Spain twice, learned many things in life, taken up smoking, spent a month in Paris, become a Prefect, and have extended my knowledge considerably. I am now on the door-step of University; Dad has retired; and Linda is in Grade XII. Old friends in Stockholm are already just memories. My faith in God has slipped.
While my diary makes no mention of it, an event occurred in the summer prior to my return to St. Andrew's for Upper Sixth Form (1966) which I have never forgotten. One of my friends from St. Andrew's was Ricardo Schmeichler, whose family was Austrian, but they lived and operated a business in Caracas, Venezuela called PAR (named after their children, Pedro, Alfredo and Ricardo). Ricardo told me that he was going to be in Paris, France for the summer, and since I knew I would be returning to Europe for the summer to spend a month on the Spanish riviera (Costa Brava near Barcelona) with my family before making our way eventually through the Pyrenees to Paris, Copenhagen then Stockholm, I told him to wait for me to arrive in Paris before going up the Eiffel Tower (which he had never visited before).
My father and sister returned from Spain in one car together. Mother, I and a Catholic Priest whom mother had invited along to Spain returned in another. The Priest was driving. His faith must have been enormous, since he decided while we were climbing a mountain on the Spanish border to pass a truck. As we reached the crest of the hill, another truck was coming the other way. We had a mountain cliff on one side of the road, and a rock face on the other. There was nowhere to go but straight ahead, which we did. Fortunately the two truck drivers had the presence of mind to shift as much as possible to the edges of the road, and our car was buffeted between them, cushioned to a degree by the large rubber tyres. No one was hurt in the accident, but I was very shaken up, and I decided that when I got to Paris, the last thing I wanted to do was to get back into a car for another long haul to Stockholm.
The evening of our arrival in Paris was filled with the glamour that one would hope for and expect in such a magnificent city. Ricardo, Lindy and I went out together for dinner, then took a horse- drawn carriage about the centre of Paris, along the Champs Elysees, around the Presidential Palace (where we almost became part of a gathering of people attending a soiree), and so on. The next day, at Ricardo's invitation, I discussed with my parents the possibility of my staying with Ricardo at his uncle's place in Mont Martre. Dad came to look at the place, which I think he found a bit strange by comparison to most residences in North America, but which I instantly recognized as simply over- done French decoration. The uncle owned a Jaguar automobile dealership in Paris, and seemed to
In the two years that have passed since I last wrote in this book, I have been to Spain twice, learned many things in life, taken up smoking, spent a month in Paris, become a Prefect, and have extended my knowledge considerably. I am now on the door-step of University; Dad has retired; and Linda is in Grade XII. Old friends in Stockholm are already just memories. My faith in God has slipped.
While my diary makes no mention of it, an event occurred in the summer prior to my return to St. Andrew's for Upper Sixth Form (1966) which I have never forgotten. One of my friends from St. Andrew's was Ricardo Schmeichler, whose family was Austrian, but they lived and operated a business in Caracas, Venezuela called PAR (named after their children, Pedro, Alfredo and Ricardo). Ricardo told me that he was going to be in Paris, France for the summer, and since I knew I would be returning to Europe for the summer to spend a month on the Spanish riviera (Costa Brava near Barcelona) with my family before making our way eventually through the Pyrenees to Paris, Copenhagen then Stockholm, I told him to wait for me to arrive in Paris before going up the Eiffel Tower (which he had never visited before).
My father and sister returned from Spain in one car together. Mother, I and a Catholic Priest whom mother had invited along to Spain returned in another. The Priest was driving. His faith must have been enormous, since he decided while we were climbing a mountain on the Spanish border to pass a truck. As we reached the crest of the hill, another truck was coming the other way. We had a mountain cliff on one side of the road, and a rock face on the other. There was nowhere to go but straight ahead, which we did. Fortunately the two truck drivers had the presence of mind to shift as much as possible to the edges of the road, and our car was buffeted between them, cushioned to a degree by the large rubber tyres. No one was hurt in the accident, but I was very shaken up, and I decided that when I got to Paris, the last thing I wanted to do was to get back into a car for another long haul to Stockholm.
The evening of our arrival in Paris was filled with the glamour that one would hope for and expect in such a magnificent city. Ricardo, Lindy and I went out together for dinner, then took a horse- drawn carriage about the centre of Paris, along the Champs Elysees, around the Presidential Palace (where we almost became part of a gathering of people attending a soiree), and so on. The next day, at Ricardo's invitation, I discussed with my parents the possibility of my staying with Ricardo at his uncle's place in Mont Martre. Dad came to look at the place, which I think he found a bit strange by comparison to most residences in North America, but which I instantly recognized as simply over- done French decoration. The uncle owned a Jaguar automobile dealership in Paris, and seemed to
be generally trustworthy. So the deal was done, but to the chagrin of Lindy, who was told she would have to return to Stockholm.
When the occasion finally presented itself for Ricardo and I to visit the Eiffel Tower, we struck gold. Completely innocently, we had chosen the evening of July 14 (Bastille Day) to see the sights of Paris from the Tower. We must have arrived at the Tower fairly early in the evening (having no doubt finished our customary meal of escargots, bread and pounded horsemeat), but already things were getting busy. And when we reached the top, we heard that no more people would be allowed up until people started leaving, which nobody appeared to be doing. It was then that we discovered we had inadvertently picked the supreme sight to view the fireworks which would soon be lit all over the city! Soon we were seeing fireboats on the Seine, pumping jets of water into the air, illuminated by back-lights of red and green and blue. Then, in the distance, the great cathedrals were seen to come ablaze with light, and fireworks were popping off all over the black sky of the city. The streets fanned out below us, ablaze with light and bustling with activity. When we finally descended, and headed for the Left Bank, the traffic was like honey. But we managed to make the rounds, twirling in and out of cafes, and then back to the Trocadero, the fountains in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was here that we met Jean-Luc Meyer.
Ricardo had always been interested in photography, so it was not the least bit unusual for me that he should have taken a notion to photograph the fountains. It was at this point that we became aware of a mocking voice behind us, speaking in French, words to the effect, “Look at these stupid Americans, taking pictures of the fountains!”. Ricardo and I both spoke sufficient French to understand what was being said (and in fact we were both attending Alliance Francaise to improve our skills), so we turned on the gentleman and informed him, first, that we were not Americans, that Ricardo was Venezuelan and I was Canadian; and, second, we did not see what was so stupid about taking pictures of the fountains. The rather startled gentleman (who turned out to be Jean-Luc Meyer) immediately apologized, but did, however, point out that he too had an interest in photography, and he could not help but remark that, by shooting pictures so close to the fountains, we risked getting water-spray on the lens. We conceded that this made sense. But Jean-Luc still felt compelled to make good his apology. So he (together with his silent friend, Olivier) invited Ricardo and me to join them for a citron pressée on the Champs Elysees, which invitation we accepted. After we had enjoyed our refreshment, and were preparing to hail a cab to take us home, Jean-Luc again pressed us to join him on Sunday morning for a drive to his place in the country, and also to test a new vehicle which his aunt had purchased. He gave us a visiting card with his name and address, and we then took off into the night, along with Olivier. When we asked Olivier where he might like to be dropped, he said anywhere was fine (which I couldn't help but think was an odd observation in such a huge city), and he got out of the car, and we never saw him again.
But Sunday morning came, and when we gave the cab driver Jean-Luc's visiting card, the driver seemed to be uncertain whether in fact we were not mistaken about where we wanted to go. But we assured him that the address was correct so as far as we knew, and that was where we wanted to go. The address was on Avenue Victor Hugo which was looking magical on that beautifully warm and sunny July morning. The entrance to the residence off the grand tree lined boulevard was through
When the occasion finally presented itself for Ricardo and I to visit the Eiffel Tower, we struck gold. Completely innocently, we had chosen the evening of July 14 (Bastille Day) to see the sights of Paris from the Tower. We must have arrived at the Tower fairly early in the evening (having no doubt finished our customary meal of escargots, bread and pounded horsemeat), but already things were getting busy. And when we reached the top, we heard that no more people would be allowed up until people started leaving, which nobody appeared to be doing. It was then that we discovered we had inadvertently picked the supreme sight to view the fireworks which would soon be lit all over the city! Soon we were seeing fireboats on the Seine, pumping jets of water into the air, illuminated by back-lights of red and green and blue. Then, in the distance, the great cathedrals were seen to come ablaze with light, and fireworks were popping off all over the black sky of the city. The streets fanned out below us, ablaze with light and bustling with activity. When we finally descended, and headed for the Left Bank, the traffic was like honey. But we managed to make the rounds, twirling in and out of cafes, and then back to the Trocadero, the fountains in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was here that we met Jean-Luc Meyer.
Ricardo had always been interested in photography, so it was not the least bit unusual for me that he should have taken a notion to photograph the fountains. It was at this point that we became aware of a mocking voice behind us, speaking in French, words to the effect, “Look at these stupid Americans, taking pictures of the fountains!”. Ricardo and I both spoke sufficient French to understand what was being said (and in fact we were both attending Alliance Francaise to improve our skills), so we turned on the gentleman and informed him, first, that we were not Americans, that Ricardo was Venezuelan and I was Canadian; and, second, we did not see what was so stupid about taking pictures of the fountains. The rather startled gentleman (who turned out to be Jean-Luc Meyer) immediately apologized, but did, however, point out that he too had an interest in photography, and he could not help but remark that, by shooting pictures so close to the fountains, we risked getting water-spray on the lens. We conceded that this made sense. But Jean-Luc still felt compelled to make good his apology. So he (together with his silent friend, Olivier) invited Ricardo and me to join them for a citron pressée on the Champs Elysees, which invitation we accepted. After we had enjoyed our refreshment, and were preparing to hail a cab to take us home, Jean-Luc again pressed us to join him on Sunday morning for a drive to his place in the country, and also to test a new vehicle which his aunt had purchased. He gave us a visiting card with his name and address, and we then took off into the night, along with Olivier. When we asked Olivier where he might like to be dropped, he said anywhere was fine (which I couldn't help but think was an odd observation in such a huge city), and he got out of the car, and we never saw him again.
But Sunday morning came, and when we gave the cab driver Jean-Luc's visiting card, the driver seemed to be uncertain whether in fact we were not mistaken about where we wanted to go. But we assured him that the address was correct so as far as we knew, and that was where we wanted to go. The address was on Avenue Victor Hugo which was looking magical on that beautifully warm and sunny July morning. The entrance to the residence off the grand tree lined boulevard was through
an equally grand stone archway. We drove along a relatively short cobblestone drive to the front entrance and stopped before a heavy oak door. After ascending one flight of stairs, we were inside the so-called apartment, which was easily as large as a house. The long hallways were cluttered with photographs of family members with what appeared to be famous or important people (I was too young or too rushed to determine which); and the few rooms we saw were richly appointed. However, we wasted no time on such matters as interior design, as Jean-Luc gathered up his things and our luggage, and we headed back to the street where his aunt was waiting in her new car.
The car was a small European vehicle of no distinction. Jean-Luc assumed the wheel, aunt in front, Ricardo and I in the back, and we headed off in a flurry to the country, munching I recall some marzipan. Somewhere outside of Paris, along a more rural road, a truck passed us, a rock flew up and struck the windshield of our car, causing the entire screen to crystallize. Jean-Luc was able to stop the car safely. He pulled off his right shoe and used the heel of it to smash out the now opaque windshield. So we then drove on with a considerable amount of wind in our faces, and Jean-Luc decided to heighten the merriment by turning on both the windshield wipers and the windshield washer, something which was not sitting at all well with his aunt. Bad start to her new car, in fairness.
As we drove into what was the object of our tour (a small country village), many people waved to Jean-Luc as he drove through the narrow streets. He later confided that he was thinking of running for election as the local mayor (a prospect which I found quite unexpected, since he was not more than twenty, we being about 17 years of age at the time). The house before which we finally came to rest was a thoroughly charming thatched roof country residence, with five dormer windows on the second floor. The inside was distinctly oak and very comfortable. The back yard consisted of a small grassy area of rather little definition, and the backdrop was a small, old church (in which I later played the pump organ). Because of the hour, we immediately sat down to a summer luncheon, consisting of crawfish, salad, followed by fruit, cheese, brandy and cigars. After a short respite, Jean-Luc headed off with the other two to get the windshield of the car fixed, leaving me with my glass of brandy, a cigar and two hundred rounds of ammunition to be used to pop off some of the millions of sparrows and other small birds which abounded in the back yard (along with the donkey). Fortunately for the birds, by the time Jean-Luc and crew returned home, I had shot all 200 rounds and hit nothing. I think that was the last time I ever shot a gun.
What happened the rest of that day or the next has long since faded from my memory. All I do remember is that on the day of our return to Paris, Jean-Luc again insisted that he perfect his original insult to us by the Fountain. He said his family was having a birthday party in St. Tropez for a friend of the family, for someone who was quite well known in France, but of whom we may never had heard. Her name was Brigitte Bardot. Well, we of course said we knew who she was, but the problem was that we did not have the money to travel to St. Tropez, to which Jean-Luc replied that was no problem at all because his father had a plane going down. Ricardo and I thought this would be just fine, but I had to take the precaution of calling my parents to advise them of this, if for no other reason than to confirm we would be “leaving town” so to speak. When I connected with my mother, she thought the whole affair was a scam, and Ricardo and I were instructed to get on the next
The car was a small European vehicle of no distinction. Jean-Luc assumed the wheel, aunt in front, Ricardo and I in the back, and we headed off in a flurry to the country, munching I recall some marzipan. Somewhere outside of Paris, along a more rural road, a truck passed us, a rock flew up and struck the windshield of our car, causing the entire screen to crystallize. Jean-Luc was able to stop the car safely. He pulled off his right shoe and used the heel of it to smash out the now opaque windshield. So we then drove on with a considerable amount of wind in our faces, and Jean-Luc decided to heighten the merriment by turning on both the windshield wipers and the windshield washer, something which was not sitting at all well with his aunt. Bad start to her new car, in fairness.
As we drove into what was the object of our tour (a small country village), many people waved to Jean-Luc as he drove through the narrow streets. He later confided that he was thinking of running for election as the local mayor (a prospect which I found quite unexpected, since he was not more than twenty, we being about 17 years of age at the time). The house before which we finally came to rest was a thoroughly charming thatched roof country residence, with five dormer windows on the second floor. The inside was distinctly oak and very comfortable. The back yard consisted of a small grassy area of rather little definition, and the backdrop was a small, old church (in which I later played the pump organ). Because of the hour, we immediately sat down to a summer luncheon, consisting of crawfish, salad, followed by fruit, cheese, brandy and cigars. After a short respite, Jean-Luc headed off with the other two to get the windshield of the car fixed, leaving me with my glass of brandy, a cigar and two hundred rounds of ammunition to be used to pop off some of the millions of sparrows and other small birds which abounded in the back yard (along with the donkey). Fortunately for the birds, by the time Jean-Luc and crew returned home, I had shot all 200 rounds and hit nothing. I think that was the last time I ever shot a gun.
What happened the rest of that day or the next has long since faded from my memory. All I do remember is that on the day of our return to Paris, Jean-Luc again insisted that he perfect his original insult to us by the Fountain. He said his family was having a birthday party in St. Tropez for a friend of the family, for someone who was quite well known in France, but of whom we may never had heard. Her name was Brigitte Bardot. Well, we of course said we knew who she was, but the problem was that we did not have the money to travel to St. Tropez, to which Jean-Luc replied that was no problem at all because his father had a plane going down. Ricardo and I thought this would be just fine, but I had to take the precaution of calling my parents to advise them of this, if for no other reason than to confirm we would be “leaving town” so to speak. When I connected with my mother, she thought the whole affair was a scam, and Ricardo and I were instructed to get on the next
plane out of Paris and head for Stockholm, which we dutifully did (interrupted by a small but enjoyable over-night detour in Copenhagen, where we visited Tivoli).
Back in Stockholm, I was sitting in the back yard one sunny afternoon reading my mother's copy ofParis Match, and to my utter astonishment I came upon some pictures of a birthday party for Brigitte Bardot recently held in St. Tropez. And there was a picture of her and Jean-Luc, arm in arm, glasses raised, smiling for the photographer. I raced into the house to show mother. I cannot remember what, if anything, she said.
Jean-Luc and I continued to correspond by letter for about a year or so after that summer, but then the lines of communication just dwindled away. Later in life people have asked me if he might not have been related to famous Jewish leaders of the same family name. I shall never know.
During the Lower Sixth Form (and into Upper Sixth), I developed a close friendship with Max Marechaux and Nicholas Glassow. We were virtually inseparable. One of our most memorable outings was a visit with Timothy Kingston to his parents' place in Stowe, Vermont for a ski week. We drove down in Max' Volkswagen automobile, singing all the way (mostly Broadway hits and school hymns), and stopping at every convenience store to stock up on the latest tobacco products. We bought everything from cigarettes to cigars to cigarillos to pipe tobacco to chewing tobacco (with the unforgettable trade name of "A Hard Day's Chaw"). While memorable, it would less than honest to call it a highlight of the trip, to say that each one of us literally cracked our respective tongues down the middle from having smoked or "chawed" too much. Dr. Kingston, Timothy's father, was also an old boy of the school. He smoked cigarettes, and with such skill in fact that he could successfully arrange to have the long ash of his cigarette fall into an ashtray just by coughing at the right time. He particularly amused us one night when he asked if we still had to wear the scarlet jackets with our cadet gear, which we said we did, and he replied, “Hot as hell, aren't they!”
The Lower Sixth Form and the first part of the Upper Sixth Form also involved me in a tortuous hero worship. The whole experience seems to have been an exercise in attempting to win the attention of someone who probably thought very little if anything about me, and somehow trying to model myself after the object of my attention. Both efforts were not unexpectedly doomed to failure. But the experience provided me with some wonderful fodder for the imagination, and led me into the exploration of the difference between reality and imaginary relationships:
Although I hate to admit it, I really do not know much about human character. I wish that I could give an objective appraisal of a person's character, but it's hard as hell. I am always caught up in my subjective opinion of a person, and therefore my opinion is greatly distorted. December 9, 1966.
Generally, my last year at St. Andrew's was a year of reflection:
On thing I learned from those exams was that I do not think enough. Sure, I can memorize a few facts, but as for clear, perceptive thinking, I certainly lag far behind what I should be. I really must try to think more for myself. Nick Nation, for example, got the highest mark in English (81%), and I can well imagine why he did: he thinks; he is controlled, not easily excitable, and patient.
Back in Stockholm, I was sitting in the back yard one sunny afternoon reading my mother's copy ofParis Match, and to my utter astonishment I came upon some pictures of a birthday party for Brigitte Bardot recently held in St. Tropez. And there was a picture of her and Jean-Luc, arm in arm, glasses raised, smiling for the photographer. I raced into the house to show mother. I cannot remember what, if anything, she said.
Jean-Luc and I continued to correspond by letter for about a year or so after that summer, but then the lines of communication just dwindled away. Later in life people have asked me if he might not have been related to famous Jewish leaders of the same family name. I shall never know.
During the Lower Sixth Form (and into Upper Sixth), I developed a close friendship with Max Marechaux and Nicholas Glassow. We were virtually inseparable. One of our most memorable outings was a visit with Timothy Kingston to his parents' place in Stowe, Vermont for a ski week. We drove down in Max' Volkswagen automobile, singing all the way (mostly Broadway hits and school hymns), and stopping at every convenience store to stock up on the latest tobacco products. We bought everything from cigarettes to cigars to cigarillos to pipe tobacco to chewing tobacco (with the unforgettable trade name of "A Hard Day's Chaw"). While memorable, it would less than honest to call it a highlight of the trip, to say that each one of us literally cracked our respective tongues down the middle from having smoked or "chawed" too much. Dr. Kingston, Timothy's father, was also an old boy of the school. He smoked cigarettes, and with such skill in fact that he could successfully arrange to have the long ash of his cigarette fall into an ashtray just by coughing at the right time. He particularly amused us one night when he asked if we still had to wear the scarlet jackets with our cadet gear, which we said we did, and he replied, “Hot as hell, aren't they!”
The Lower Sixth Form and the first part of the Upper Sixth Form also involved me in a tortuous hero worship. The whole experience seems to have been an exercise in attempting to win the attention of someone who probably thought very little if anything about me, and somehow trying to model myself after the object of my attention. Both efforts were not unexpectedly doomed to failure. But the experience provided me with some wonderful fodder for the imagination, and led me into the exploration of the difference between reality and imaginary relationships:
Although I hate to admit it, I really do not know much about human character. I wish that I could give an objective appraisal of a person's character, but it's hard as hell. I am always caught up in my subjective opinion of a person, and therefore my opinion is greatly distorted. December 9, 1966.
Generally, my last year at St. Andrew's was a year of reflection:
On thing I learned from those exams was that I do not think enough. Sure, I can memorize a few facts, but as for clear, perceptive thinking, I certainly lag far behind what I should be. I really must try to think more for myself. Nick Nation, for example, got the highest mark in English (81%), and I can well imagine why he did: he thinks; he is controlled, not easily excitable, and patient.
Patience is certainly a virtue. It is remarkable how many difficulties in life are resolved with time. And it usually doesn't take much time - sometimes, patience can be less than a second long - or perhaps, a day. Beyond that, I think that more than patience is required.
The final year at St. Andrew's also meant that, for the first time, I had a room to myself. No more roommates. This definitely put me in the unusual position of sitting back and watching the world. Including watching my own introverted world. I was having a bit of a struggle with life. Unsure of myself; displeased with my own behaviour; lacking in self-respect; suffering from a sense of worthlessness:
But what's the matter. I seem to be searching for an answer to life, but what is it? January 20, 1967.
That's what John (Cossar) said (we were at his place tonight). You must learn to love yourself; i.e., learn to live with your own capabilities and limitations. Then you will be able to love others. But before being concerned with being loved, we must love. January 21, 1967.
I am not putting enough into life, and, consequently, I am not reaping. It's the old story. However, I think I can rationalize my way out of my problems by saying that I have a cold, and I am feeling physically (and mentally!) pretty bad. I am not exerting myself. But why must I be constantly pushing myself if I am to be happy. Can't I be happy doing something which does not constantly require a lot of work. The answer is probably "No". Life grants nothing to mortals without great toil. It's such a pity that we have to toil so much in life. The times when I am happiest with my lot and with others is when I am busy. February 24, 1967.
In our final year at St. Andrew's, we must have been introduced to a number of provocative authors, not the least of which seems to have been James Joyce, because I appear to have adopted a "stream of consciousness" technique in my writings. The technique was not cleverly applied, but the fascination with mysterious objects of affection was there. Perhaps it was an awakening of physical attraction, couched in terms of "human beauty". And perhaps it was just knowing that the release from the confines of St. Andrew's was on the horizon. I unquestionably developed some rather juvenile interest in the gentler side of life:
This evening, I studied Brooke's poem "The Hill". For me, the first two lines of the poem are the most beautiful lines that I have ever heard in my life: "Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass". As usual, the vitality and the mystery of the sun are the things which fascinate me in the lines. I love the sun, and someday I too (like Axel Munthe) will live in eternal sunshine, overlooking a blue, blue, green, deep, cool Mediterranean sea. And the wind can gust, and blow the sand in my face, and let the sun beat down on my leather face. March 6, 1967.
The final year at St. Andrew's also meant that, for the first time, I had a room to myself. No more roommates. This definitely put me in the unusual position of sitting back and watching the world. Including watching my own introverted world. I was having a bit of a struggle with life. Unsure of myself; displeased with my own behaviour; lacking in self-respect; suffering from a sense of worthlessness:
But what's the matter. I seem to be searching for an answer to life, but what is it? January 20, 1967.
That's what John (Cossar) said (we were at his place tonight). You must learn to love yourself; i.e., learn to live with your own capabilities and limitations. Then you will be able to love others. But before being concerned with being loved, we must love. January 21, 1967.
I am not putting enough into life, and, consequently, I am not reaping. It's the old story. However, I think I can rationalize my way out of my problems by saying that I have a cold, and I am feeling physically (and mentally!) pretty bad. I am not exerting myself. But why must I be constantly pushing myself if I am to be happy. Can't I be happy doing something which does not constantly require a lot of work. The answer is probably "No". Life grants nothing to mortals without great toil. It's such a pity that we have to toil so much in life. The times when I am happiest with my lot and with others is when I am busy. February 24, 1967.
In our final year at St. Andrew's, we must have been introduced to a number of provocative authors, not the least of which seems to have been James Joyce, because I appear to have adopted a "stream of consciousness" technique in my writings. The technique was not cleverly applied, but the fascination with mysterious objects of affection was there. Perhaps it was an awakening of physical attraction, couched in terms of "human beauty". And perhaps it was just knowing that the release from the confines of St. Andrew's was on the horizon. I unquestionably developed some rather juvenile interest in the gentler side of life:
This evening, I studied Brooke's poem "The Hill". For me, the first two lines of the poem are the most beautiful lines that I have ever heard in my life: "Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass". As usual, the vitality and the mystery of the sun are the things which fascinate me in the lines. I love the sun, and someday I too (like Axel Munthe) will live in eternal sunshine, overlooking a blue, blue, green, deep, cool Mediterranean sea. And the wind can gust, and blow the sand in my face, and let the sun beat down on my leather face. March 6, 1967.
But the teenage mind was at work in other traditional ways:
Max (Marechaux) and I planned what we are going to do this Friday: do some modern art on an old sheet, have pizza for dinner, go for a walk in the back woods, and get drunk. We are, of course, planning on John to get us a mickey of gin, and we'll get the orange juice from the kitchen. February 14, 1967.
It was one hell of a weekend. From the time we got out to the time we got back we were on one steady binge. It was really great. On Friday night, Max got sick here at the College, but we went to Cossar's and had something to drink. Then we went to Rock's (Nick Glassow) for the night; then out to the Royal Alex for The Owl and the Pussycat; then for a midnight dinner and more to drink; then to Doug Simmond's where we drank plenty. And on Monday afternoon, Rock and I got pissed again. Max is a little disgusted with it all. I'm fine. I had a great time. And, brother, did I smoke. Wow! February 20, 1967.
Already, it seems as though another year is rapidly drawing to a close. And where did it all go? I don't know. But time has been well spent, and I learned an awful lot this year. For one thing, I now know that excessive drinking is useless. I have been drunk so many times, and I feel so lousy the next day, that I never want to get bombed again. I had one hell of a hang-over on the cadet weekend. Forget it! Never again! And, as for smoking, I had been learning to take that moderately too. May 2, 1967.
And the future was not far off:
The thing I can't get over is how rapidly time is going. It won't be long before I'm in my twenties in college. Then perhaps I'll be a lawyer, working away, getting money, but completely removed from humanity. April 23, 1967.
But the deeper concerns of life, if in fact the concerns of youth have any credible legitimacy at all, were awakening more and more as time sped by:
And I discovered tonight that the "via media" really is the best path to follow. (Knut) Skie and company were planning another "after-lights-out" sojourn, and I informed him that he could talk with his company members only if the noise was kept to a minimum. He agreed, and - as I listen now (pause) - I don't hear a thing from them.
Max (Marechaux) and I planned what we are going to do this Friday: do some modern art on an old sheet, have pizza for dinner, go for a walk in the back woods, and get drunk. We are, of course, planning on John to get us a mickey of gin, and we'll get the orange juice from the kitchen. February 14, 1967.
It was one hell of a weekend. From the time we got out to the time we got back we were on one steady binge. It was really great. On Friday night, Max got sick here at the College, but we went to Cossar's and had something to drink. Then we went to Rock's (Nick Glassow) for the night; then out to the Royal Alex for The Owl and the Pussycat; then for a midnight dinner and more to drink; then to Doug Simmond's where we drank plenty. And on Monday afternoon, Rock and I got pissed again. Max is a little disgusted with it all. I'm fine. I had a great time. And, brother, did I smoke. Wow! February 20, 1967.
Already, it seems as though another year is rapidly drawing to a close. And where did it all go? I don't know. But time has been well spent, and I learned an awful lot this year. For one thing, I now know that excessive drinking is useless. I have been drunk so many times, and I feel so lousy the next day, that I never want to get bombed again. I had one hell of a hang-over on the cadet weekend. Forget it! Never again! And, as for smoking, I had been learning to take that moderately too. May 2, 1967.
And the future was not far off:
The thing I can't get over is how rapidly time is going. It won't be long before I'm in my twenties in college. Then perhaps I'll be a lawyer, working away, getting money, but completely removed from humanity. April 23, 1967.
But the deeper concerns of life, if in fact the concerns of youth have any credible legitimacy at all, were awakening more and more as time sped by:
And I discovered tonight that the "via media" really is the best path to follow. (Knut) Skie and company were planning another "after-lights-out" sojourn, and I informed him that he could talk with his company members only if the noise was kept to a minimum. He agreed, and - as I listen now (pause) - I don't hear a thing from them.
It makes me so happy to see them compromise with me; life becomes so much simpler. It's much better like that.
Life has been so very good to me so far that - being as fatalistic as I am - I keep wondering when I am going to be knocked down off my pedestal.
Last night, I spoke to Mr. Fisher for approximately an half-hour. He had some very interesting things to say. First, he is very much against the great emphasis on academic achievement here at the College. In particular, he feels that this emphasis has bred an unnecessary consciousness of marks. And, indeed, I'll be the first to agree with him. Two days ago, I realized that I no longer had to be overly concerned with studying, since the marks I have already produced this year will be the marks which will be tallied for prize purposes. I am not worried about competing with Hal (Simon Hally); nothing I can do now will get me any more marks, and I have already been accepted at University. Consequently, I now study merely for the purpose of learning - not for marks. This crass fact only demonstrates what Mr. Fisher said. I only wish that there was some way of removing this thoroughly disgusting competitive atmosphere. It only causes antagonism between people, and it does not breed good "human" characteristics in people.
Mr. Fisher also mentioned his concern for McLean. Obviously, John-E has got a lot of people worried about him. What ability that lad has! He would be an excellent First Secretary to some Ambassador. It is by far the most admirable quality to be able to deal successfully with people. Dealing with yourself is a near impossibility, since we are never pleased with ourselves. And furthermore, it only makes a person sick to think of himself. This is probably why Brooke and I are so temperamental and bad-tempered. We are greatly upset by any failing of ours, and this is all that concerns us. If a person can only gear himself to thinking about others - in an altruistic and enthusiastic way - that person would soon rid himself of a terrible sickness, and he would gain, in its place, a purpose, a motive, an objective in life.
Life, like Camus says, is absolutely ridiculous - for the individual. However, concern for others presents us with a task which is certainly challenging, but not insurmountable. Whereas, a concern about ourselves is not only uninteresting, but also insurmountable and unrewarding. Well, that's fine on paper. But how does one "gear himself to thinking about others"? First, it's not an easy task. We have to keep that in mind. We must, secondly, try to place ourselves in the shoes of others. Try to understand their problems, their desires, their eccentricities. This done, we can - if needed - help others to overcome their problems. Don't talk about others behind their backs merely for the sake of being deprecatory. And, similarly, don't talk to their faces merely for the sake of flattering. Assess them for what they are, and if they merit criticism or praise, dish it out accordingly. Try to be pleasant to people even when you criticize. This entails some knowledge of argumentation, an art which is slowly acquired as we mature.
However, one cannot be always thinking about others. We must develop our own talents so that we develop into good, talented people. Besides the "material developments" (and I mean such things as academics, sports, music, etc.), we must also develop the spiritual potentialities in us. Set up some moral standards, and, after they have been carefully considered for their true worth and value, stick to them. Nevertheless, modulate and revise morals where necessary. There is a time and place for everything; don't be "stuffy" if one of your moral standards are upset. Try to compromise.
Well, that brings me back to my first point - compromise. I'll have to see what I can do about that. May 25, 1967.
As my time at St. Andrew's drew to a close, I became more analytical about the people around me, and about myself. Perhaps it was the release from the worry about exams. More likely, it was the beginning of what appears to date to have been a constant preoccupation and interest. But the philosophical holiday was short-lived:
My construction job is damn difficult, very routine, hard and boring. The more I come face to face with reality, the more I want to turn away from it - turn to my dream world. July 18, 1967.
It has been a strange past few days for me. I'm here in Fredericton, and every day has been, for me, an awakening to new realities. Realities which are, for the most part, rather cold and sobering. I have met my cousins and uncles and aunts, and I have seen how each one is making out in this world. Nancy and Sandra, Shirley and Doug are people who have made me very happy because I see in them people who are very kind and knowledgeable, and people who are developing into worthy human beings. The two girls are like beautiful young roses still in the budding stage. It will be interesting to see how that flower develops. Will they blossom perfectly? Will they bend with the wind, only to return to their beautiful up-right position? Or will the "winds of change" snap off the young bud, leaving only an ugly stem aimlessly reaching into the sky?
I feel so very sorry for some of my cousins, because they haven't been as lucky as I, and because they are having hard times in life. Will they be able to overcome those difficulties? I suppose that the most comforting thing for me is that, to a great degree, we each control our own destinies. By concentrating on life and living, we can mould ourselves into good human beings.
It is difficult for me to ascertain as yet what it is that I want out of life. I want to help people. And yet, I can't help but feel that my possibility of improving human relations are so small that I would have very little effect on the whole complex world which surrounds me. The war in Viet Nam is very distressing for me. And all the little problems in my daily life so very often vex me.
However, I suppose that I must learn to play a small role in the building of our society. If I can have a good influence on people - a few people - may then I will have done some good. July, 1967.
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