Think of the summer, postgraduates! Warm yourselves with thoughts of the summer!
Think of summer skies. Think of summer warmth. Think of dreams of taking summer flight, borne by summer winds.
Think of setting sail into the summer, as into the limitless, postgraduates. The Open. Think of being freed into summer, into summer warmth.
Think of the near-empty campus, excerpt for a few foreign students. Except for academics gathered for summer conferences. But even them in good moods, in summer moods.
Think of our Philosophy offices, doors standing open, postgraduates. Think of the summer breeze through our accommodation.
Think of the summer postgraduate room. Desk fans moving drowsily from side to side. Think of the open windows. Think of the wind-stirred blinds.
And your trips to Marks and Spencer, to buy lunch. Your trips to Beatdown Records, to browse LPs.
And couldn’t you even go to the beach, postgraduates? Walk on Longsands? Walk from Seaton Sluice up towards Blyth. Think of South Shields beach! Of Whitley Bay. Only a Metro ride away. Only a decisive to skive for the afternoon away. Only a desire for truancy away.
And think of summer evenings, cycling to the Free Trae. Beers outside at the Tyne. Or sitting in the garden of the Cumberland.
Wasn’t that a time for summer romance? For summer trysts? For summer adventures, in the long grass?
And warm, postgraduates. Warm, as you pursue your summer reading projects. Your writing projects. Are you going to read Science of Logic this year? The entirety of Kierkegaard, including the sermons? Are you go to eat your Aristotle greens: read De Anima, read the Politics, read the Nichomachean Ethics – work your way up to the Metaphysics … And what about Spinoza? Are you going to do your Spinoza duties? Are you going to read the Ethics alongside the great commentaries on the Ethics? Isn’t it about time? And what of Leibniz: haven’t you always neglected Leibniz? Can you say, as you should, that you have a working knowledge of Leibniz? Or any knowledge of Leibniz?
Summer is the time, postgraduates. That’s what summer’s for. The inexhaustible summer! The summer that we’ll never be able to use up! The summer that never ends! That is always but a dream summer – the summer of our potential. Of what we might read. Or what we might write. Under the summer vault! In the high-reaching halls of summer!
And warm – Newcastle warm, which is the equivalent of Scandinavian warm: a cool warmth. A keen warmth. Under high skies! And calm – none of those Newcastle winds. None of those autumn squalls. When time seemed to lack all direction. When time seemed to sink into itself. Lie down. When there time pools. Time shimmering, like heat over summer roads.
When the air seemed thick from warmth, postgraduates. When the air seemed runny. When it dripped slow drips, like honey. When warm drips ran down the jar of summer.
When we all but lay our heads on the summer earth. On the summer sand. Where we rested our heads on the summer beach. Where we could fall asleep in the sun.
Remember that, postgraduates: those weeks without mooring. Those weeks of summer voyage. Summer languor. Summer luxuriance. The great summer stretching of limbs. Let it warm you now …
Work in Progress 