Gaudeamus Igitur
“A lovely picture of a proud father and a triumphant
daughter. Friends or colleagues of yours?”
“No,” Harold said, “this appeared in Harvard’s Alumni magazine about 20 years ago.
I asked the Public Relations lady to get me a print. I have no idea who they
were, or are.”
“And you’ve included it in your collection for the same purpose as the previous
color and black and white juxtaposition?”
“Partly. But mostly because it reminds me of the existence of parallel
universes.”
“Ah, Harold, now you’re getting into allegory, metaphor.”
“The very best way of dealing with disturbing subjects, don’t you think?”
“I don’t see anything at all unpleasant about the scene,” I said. “Here are walls
of ivy, a celebration of accomplishment. I can hear the strains of Gaudeamus
igitur. ”
“Yes, the medieval students’ song picked up by Brahams in his Academic Festival
Overture. Did you know that when it was first performed at the University of
Breslau in 1881 many members of the assembled faculty were shocked?”
“Why?”
“Because it was more often heard in dormitories and taverns, rather than in the
ever-so-solemn classrooms and libraries of that elite university. At the time
the tune was an unofficial anthem of rowdy students protesting German police
surveillance.”
“Very interesting. But you were speaking of parallel universes, disturbing
subjects.”
“Yes, thank you. Can you imagine in what circumstances such an image would
elicit a negative reaction?”
I thought for a moment. “I suppose the folks in a third world slum wouldn’t see
much beauty in it.”
“Exactly. Academia is a small, private enclave inhabited mostly by the
privileged.”
“But, my friend, you were a part of it.”
“I was in it, yes. But I was never truly OF it. Why do you think I left?”
* * *