Journey to Oxford

My own departure from New Zealand was aided by the departure of those before me, those who departed and felt a departure to be worth writing about. That’s how a country builds itself, how it makes itself a country worth writing about when one leaves: one writes and gives meaning to all those who come and go thereafter. 

I departed, or ‘journeyed away’ if I’m to use the terms of those before me, and as I did so I thought of Mulgan’s departure: his teary goodbyes at the wharf, his hours to contemplate the Southern sun setting for the last time for who knows how long (he was never to see it again), and then weeks to contemplate the spirit of the place he was saying goodbye to. By the time Mulgan crossed the equator and weeks later arrived in Oxford he had digested us and spat us back out again. We, a people for whom “loveliness too often goes often unnoticed”. Perhaps he sat in the University Parks on an early autumn afternoon and felt that if he didn’t start the tradition then nobody would. 

I sit in the University Parks on a late summer’s afternoon, and though I want to write about the journey to Oxford I find that there simply wasn’t enough of a journey to write about. Arrivals and departures are as mundane as remembering which day to put the rubbish out, and journeys are for luxury goods companies desperate to sell suitcases. Mine was a “trip” here, a trip like the hundreds I’ve done already (if I hold my boarding passes, which I’ve kept since I was fifteen, the stack is as thick as my thigh), and to want it to have been a journey is to simply be crassly literary about it: it doesn’t change the mundanity of any part of the process.

And yet for all the talk of distance these days being less tyrannical, a New Zealander in Oxford is still a New Zealander a long way from home. A New Zealander in Oxford is still one who thought our borders too small; he or she still thought the long trip and the goodbyes to be worthwhile. My arrival here is in so many ways a failure, because as much as the polite thing to say is that New Zealand’s universities are perfectly good, the fact is that one still leaves for Oxford if given the chance. I know of no one who has turned the chance down. 

“Must we continue to consider him as a “post-graduate scholar”, fleeing to the other end of the earth for salvation, driven back only by circumstance to a state where he feels damned?”, John Beaglehole asked upon his return to New Zealand just a few years before Mulgan’s departure. My arrival here is, if not a national failure, then a personal one, because it answers Beaglehole in the affirmative: yes, we must still consider him or her so. The life of the province is rich but it is not yet rich enough; the country communicates life but it does not yet have enough of it. Meanwhile, New Zealanders in Oxford laugh at the British but vow never to return to those “Antipodes” (the British term for isles quaint but not worth knowing about). Beijing, a few of them mention. 

Days after arriving I went to the Sackler, Oxford’s art library, and asked for a book on McCahon (it did not take long for me to miss those hills). Your search returned no results. Rita Angus, then—no results. Perhaps I would re-read Mulgan from a new vantage point, but it wasn’t to be, for I am not a member of Balliol, the only college library to hold a copy, and I did not feel like making an appointment with the college library to “view” the book. See, it is still either there or here, here or there. While home I relish revelling in the culture that is ours, but regret that there is not enough culture that is ours merely by humanity, rather than nationality. Here, the opposite: humanity is just a short walk to the library away, but the Bodleian does not yet know how to categorise New Zealanders’ humanity (in fact, our books are simply not sold here). 

I left intending and planning to return, but a part of me is preternaturally scared that something will prevent it: something like a job. If I am to write, from here I could write to the world—from home I would write to ourselves. If I am to start a business, from here I start one facing outwards first and inwards second, whereas from home it is inwards first and outwards hopefully. Still it is for us a choice, whereas the mark of sufficient cultural life is to eradicate the need for a choice. It is true that “Should I stay or should I go” is still our national song, but for how long? For how long must we keep singing that song? 

 


(I asked someone close to me for their thoughts on this essay, and the reply was that, ironically, an essay such as this would never be read overseas either, precisely because it deals with New Zealand. Of course, I think that is true: which means that we must keep singing that song for at least another generation or two).

Here is John Mulgan’s fragmentary essay on his own journey to Oxford that sparked these reflections, edited by Victoria University of Wellington professor Peter Whiteford who himself journeyed to Oxford (but did, to our benefit, return).