pallas_athena (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pallas_athena) wrote2007-05-20 10:06 am
pallas_athena) wrote2007-05-20 10:06 am
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And renowned be thy grave
Yesterday I attended a memorial service for Tony Nuttall, the favourite tutor of my university days, who died suddenly and unexpectedly in January. (I wrote about it here then.)
The service was at my old college. It was a beautiful day: the weather had suddenly cleared after weeks of rain, and the sun streamed in the stained-glass windows of the chapel. Tony's two children spoke, and several of his colleagues, all with great love.
Love sort of defines Tony's time at New College. Tony had this quality about him that instantly won hearts; all his students loved and revered him. He was always kind and sympathetic; funny as all hell, but in a way that hurt no one. I spent some time after the service swapping stories with other people who'd known him over tea in the Cloisters, and later over drinks in the Turf.
I've been reading Tony's book about Shakespeare, Shakespeare the Thinker, which came out last month. It's an extraordinary book, of course, because Tony was an extraordinary mind, and Shakespeare was what he spent most of his life thinking about. It's very readable, and I'd recommend it highly to anyone who's fond of Shakespeare.
Reading it, I can sort of hear Tony's voice in the lines; it's full of things I remember him talking about during tutorials. Which is lovely, but also heartbreaking, because that remembered voice is all that's left now: his real, living voice is gone. He should be around to reap the glory from this book, and to laugh and talk with friends about it. I'm glad he finished it, and glad to have it, but sad that it's all we have.
The service was at my old college. It was a beautiful day: the weather had suddenly cleared after weeks of rain, and the sun streamed in the stained-glass windows of the chapel. Tony's two children spoke, and several of his colleagues, all with great love.
Love sort of defines Tony's time at New College. Tony had this quality about him that instantly won hearts; all his students loved and revered him. He was always kind and sympathetic; funny as all hell, but in a way that hurt no one. I spent some time after the service swapping stories with other people who'd known him over tea in the Cloisters, and later over drinks in the Turf.
I've been reading Tony's book about Shakespeare, Shakespeare the Thinker, which came out last month. It's an extraordinary book, of course, because Tony was an extraordinary mind, and Shakespeare was what he spent most of his life thinking about. It's very readable, and I'd recommend it highly to anyone who's fond of Shakespeare.
Reading it, I can sort of hear Tony's voice in the lines; it's full of things I remember him talking about during tutorials. Which is lovely, but also heartbreaking, because that remembered voice is all that's left now: his real, living voice is gone. He should be around to reap the glory from this book, and to laugh and talk with friends about it. I'm glad he finished it, and glad to have it, but sad that it's all we have.
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When one finds a good teacher whom one can trust and from whom one can learn, the love goes very deep; and when they die, the sense of loss goes deep as well.
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"Fear no more" is a good elegy for a Shakespearean, I guess. In Tony's case it was also one of his favourite pieces of poetry, so at the beginning of the service a baritone sang it in the setting by Finzi, and then later someone read the passage from Tony's book where he writes about it.
If there's an afterlife, I like to think of Tony sitting and drinking with Shakespeare, finding out what was reallyin his head when he wrote. Perhaps Professor Salingar is there too?
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Leaving behind so many good memories in others is a wonderful thing. Sounds like his existing made the world a better place.
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I do my best to embrace that death is as much a part of life as any other stage, something us westerner's are so very poor at accepting. For me mourning properly those I have lost is a big part of that acceptance of the cycle, because it doesn't mean detachment. Your sorrow and joyful remembrance, and that of all who knew him, is the living bridge between your friend's life and death, and the forging of his legacy. By taking part you do him great honour, and I hope ease your own grief.
hmm, I seem to be having a ponderous day. pardon.
hugs to you.
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*hugs*
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I thought about contacting the organisers and volunteering to sing, but the truth is I'd have been too weepy to make a decent noise. I am, however, going to dedicate my June 3 recital to him. A note in the programme is a totally inadequate response to death, but I guess it's about the best I can do.
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(Anonymous) 2007-06-05 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you for writing about his book. I hope it will at least enliven him again for me in some capacity, and I echo your sentiments.
What a truly remarkable man he was - as stoic as his most cherished literary heroes. He touched generations of young people, reaching out with his immense benevolence (and Friday afternoon glasses of sherry...!) in a way that few people can. Be at peace Tony, you are much loved and much missed.
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At the service, his daughter Polly began her eulogy with the words "My father will never grow old."
Mingling in the Cloisters after the memorial service, anyone who told stories about Tony sort of lit up when they spoke of him. I'm sorry those New College years were difficult for you; well done for coming out of it with your soul intact. What you say of Tony is both beautiful and, I think, entirely typical of him. Thank you for taking the time to write such a kind and heartfelt comment. I raise a glass of sherry to you across the ether.
(I'm curious as to whether we might have met? I'm Liza Graham, and I was there 1991-94.)