Absent. The English Teacher: The English Teacher

6. A Little Touch of Georgy in the Night

6 6 A A L LI IT TT TL LE E T TO OU UC CH H O OF F G GE EO OR RG GY Y I IN N T TH HE E N NI IG GH HT T One Sunday just before bedtime, George was sitting on the step outside his khaya enjoying the sweet honey of evening cestrum and the occasional call of a spotted eagle owl, when he received visitors, the twins, Helter and Skelter. They came bearing gifts: a roasted mealie and a sweet potato , ashen from the coals of an open fire. George accepted these gifts graciously and invited the boys to join him in a cup of tea. His fire was still hot enough to boil another pot of water. The boys politely declined this offer but they had a question to ask George. Helter spoke: “What is catharsis?” George considered this question while gnawing away at his mealie. It had been cooked in its leaves, with a little salt. It was tender and so subtly flavoured that it awakened in George’s consciousness a memory of Pueblo Indians, of love-death rituals, of mortals wrestling with gods. George had never been to North America so he must have read it somewhere . Longfellow, perhaps? Something trochaic, anyway. “Catharsis is one of those words that doesn’t quite say what it means.” “But…” “Like Godot.” “Goddo?” “Or like epiphanic.” “Epi…?” “…phanic. I think James Joyce was the first to take it out of its Christian context and apply it to secular creativity: “when the soul of the commonest object seems to us radiant”. But I think the word ‘soul’ there is misleading. If ‘catharsis’ doesn’t quite say what it means, ‘soul’ doesn’t quite mean what it says. Mind you it was Stephen Dedalus who said that, not really Joyce, I suppose. They say there’s always an ironic gap between author and persona, but I’m not so sure, really… not so sure.” George left 33 off the mealie and took a bite out of the sweet potato. It was the purpleskinned kind, more flavoursome than the white. He chewed it with relish (Keats would have called it ‘gusto’). Poor bugger… dying in his own excrement, going out like a frog in a frost. The wood ash on the sweet potato made his teeth squeak. The boys were becoming agitated. Skelter produced his copy of King Lear and held it in front of George’s colonial blue eyes, faded in this crepuscular time, not a breeze stirred, to grey, his second favourite colour. “Our teacher wants us to find out if this play has catharsis, but she doesn ’t tell us what catharsis means.” George gently took the battered edition from the boy and thumbed its pages. “Othello must have gone off the syllabus,” he said. “That’s what I was teaching the A-Level students. This is a tough one.” “It’s terrible,” said Skelter. “The teacher makes us read it like a play…” “Well, it is a play.” “Yes, but we don’t understand a word of it.” “It’s just a noise,” said Helter. “‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks’.” “Pardon?” “Noise. Would you like me to read it with you?” “Would you, George?” “Of course. But only on Sundays. The rest of the time I’m too exhausted to do anything but sleep.” “Thank you, George – when can we start?” “Right now, I guess.” George stood up painfully. “Let me locate my text. He disappeared into his single room, discovered that his single electric light had blown, realised that his single candle would not provide enough light for his tired old eyes, and returned to the boys who were waiting expectantly on his doorstep. “Sorry boys,” he said, “we are going to have to do this during the day. I can’t read in this weak light.” “We have torches,” said Skelter. “No, torches won’t do; not for me, anyway. Let’s talk a bit about the play tonight, and then, next Sunday we can meet sometime during the day.” “After church?” 34 “That suits me,” smiled George who was no churchgoer. “Sit down boys, and let’s talk about catharsis.” “Yes please, George.” The boys found places to sit on the ground while George resumed his seat on the step. “Our teacher says we must look up Arsenal on the internet.” “Arsenal?” “Yes. He...