Farewell, Sir Colin White

I have always read the posters at the entrance of the Faculty. Most of the times those posters announce important aspects of academic life: lectures, books presentations, colloquies, etc., something we all are accustomed to; however, from time to time, those posters give room to another important and definitive aspect : they announce farewells. Until one month ago those farewells had seemed sad to me, I feelt sorry for those who had known the person who would not be there anymore, but, in spite of all, death had been more or less far from me.

Professor Medrano died some years ago. I have to say that he was the one who awakened my obsession with William Shakespeare; he taught me the delicate taste of reading poetry out loud; that drama acquires an almost inexplicable dimension when the representation of words begins; and that the love for literature is a cliché, a mere pose terminology that cannot express all the sensations that reading, deeep analysis and criticism should provoke in literature students. I remember that, when I read the poster announcing his death, I had in my hands the edition of The Canterbury Tales he had given me as a gift some years before. When I looked at the cover of the book, the memory of all of our experiences turned into sadness, but, at the same time, I couln't but feel thankful because of his dedication, confidence, and help to lessen my self-insecurity.

Since then, death seemed to be far away from me...but everything changed one month ago. My smile disappeared. I read his name, and had to take a breath to confirm my eyes. Yes, it was his name, Colin White, typed in a grey paper; the solemnity of a farewell. This time I couldn´t avoid tears, and I knew that nothing would be the same anymore. I was in shock, I couldn´t even listen to my students, I had the urgency of denying death. But there I was, some hours later, at the funeral with my friends. Still, we didn´t want to accept the fact. The quiet and almost empty lounge helped to ease the pain, but, little by little, people appeared. It looked like the Faculty: teachers, intellectuals, classmates, friends. As it always happens, the atmosphere was quite strange and contradictory; some were socialising and some were deeply affected. But, like my friends and I, many people seemed to resist going into the chapel, it was so hard to face him in that way...

I cannot forget the image of his wife, she broke my heart with her tears. Seeing her finally made me realize that he would never be here again and that I needed to say good-bye. I remeber that when profeesor Gerling embraced me, she said that we all were very fortunate because, no matter our age, all of us had had the unique opportunity of knowing an amazing teacher, a passionate and brilliant man whose lessons would never be forgotten. And she was right; I guess he taught us that literature is a senseless word unless you enjoy words, feel the delight of apprehending messages and meanings, and recognise the value of knowledge itself. But, above all, I must say that he instilled in us the need of being critical and self-critical, of improving as human beings and as future professionals.

His famous words:

"An awful exam, but a very inteligent analysis" (he told me this once)

"Please, dear-- read" (he used to tell me this one)

"Miss, Miss, yes, you, Miss...Ohhhhhhhhh, who wants to read?"

"Handsome man, read please...now!"

"Miserable people!"

"Use your common sense!"

"You can do much better!"

"Do you have a soul?"

"Think!!!!!"

"Puras idioteces!"

"Never say, "I didn't read"; instead say "I haven't read, Sir."

"Shame on you"

That was his method; it seems rude but it is not, these were not insults in his mouth but his way to clarify our faults and our vices, a challenge to force our potential to emerge.

I know the list of famous words is much bigger than this, but there is something he said in the meeting of Letras Modernas two years ago, something that has been in my mind since that day on: He said that no matter how far we would be from the University we should always keep a critical mind and a passionate spirit. "Una mente crítica y un espíritu apasionado", that´s the best lesson I have ever learned because it is not only a matter of academic effort but also a way to remind me that the sensual and emotional aspects must never be let aside, that we, students of literature are not robots who learn just in order to earn some money, but that we develop ideas and ideals, that we are human beings...And that is what made this farewell so painful.

I don't know how to pray, but poetry is here and there is a poem we read with Colin in HL1 (we spent a lot of time on its revision and he read it aloud for us many times):

He disappeared in the dead of winter:

The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,

And snow disfigured the public statues;

The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.

O all the instruments agree

The day of his death was a dark cold day.

From "In Memory of W. B. Yeats" by W. H. Auden.