The University or Andrew’s Walk

April 2, 1977 at 2:00 am (1977, Journal, Prose)

In the evening when the moon first rises, the sky is so black black black around it that it shocks one. And as the moon reaches up, rising up in the sky, the blackness lightens, almost a little grey-blueness gathers round, even though it be past midnight. And the moon as she rises forces away what few stars had lain there.

So it was this particular night.

So it is every night when a man is walking alone in the lonely night. But particularly on this night.

The atmosphere hung around Athens like numb, black cotton, as if dampening out its restless buzziness from pricking shocked night. The great library had closed down and gone black, except for those outdoor lamp rays that persistently hang down like bleached hair when it is night; and the chemistry complex of buildings on the hill, they too had closed down and were gone black; even the long hill rise up Baxter had fallen quiet and unhurried. So whence the restlessness then? Across the valley the Myers complex lay like sleeping bears, with a soft womanly snore; the farther out buildings of married housing also had slipped under for the long blank of night, even early April night. But down Lumpkin, diabolical Lumpkin, like sores, unscabbed sores, the restlessness broke out: fraternity houses, bands and music and sharply boogying—yes—people.

But it didn’t matter. This particular night it didn’t matter. Time comes, and a man must walk. And so it was with our particular fellow this evening.

He walked toward the hanging moon.

It had just come up like a bright balloon which at once the night engulfed, almost, in its black jagged edges, like scissors falling on it. But the moon, she held her own: for she was waxing.

And beneath her, waxing like a valiant woman with child as she was, beneath her lay Athens, self-absorbed, unnoticing, restless Athens upon the hills. And one man walking.

So this fellow walked.

Andrew—that was his name, Andrew—Andrew walked. Across Sanford bridge like one suspended above death, fearing the release that would let him drop. Up those long rising steps toward Chemistry, past it and on up higher, toward Biological Sciences. From one point you could look across and the jarred boogie of the Lumpkin scars came to you like something far, far off and beneath, quite beneath you: and disturbing, like the buzz of a mosquito behind your ears.

This was the university, he thought, this the very place, so many buildings. How long had it taken men, with all their learnings, how long had it taken them to build the first university like this—the first modern university?

It had taken them a goddamn long time.

And now he stood here as if perched on it all and looked down across that time, like one looking over waves dropping down. A damn, damn long time!

And here was the result. Here he was, perched like a vulture at the top. A sober, night-wearied critic.

From the first universities with modest buildings and students rowdy in the medieval towns, sprang this: the monolithic modern result. And he, Andrew, he stood at the top of it and looked down.

And all he got for it was a nagging mosquito at his ears, and a drowsy weariness in the back of his brain. Why? Where was mankind going with all this hill-climbing? What was the purpose of it all?

Andrew didn’t know. So he turned and walked again toward the hanging moon. For he was a strange fellow, this one, and didn’t know what else to walk towards. So he chose the moon, which by this time had gone higher, like a good bright maiden to beckon him. So it was he followed.

The anger flicked in him. And flickered higher with every step, every long continuous climbing step. It flamed up in him like angry blood. Angry against the enemies.

But it wasn’t the university—no, not that. The university was but a skeleton, a boney machine. It was the ghost in the machine that drew his hot anger, his racing, burning anger in the blood. It was the ghost. The ghost. Men.

Men, men and women, who were the ghost in the machine. Professors and students and administrators, but more. This was the world men had made, had built up the hillside. This was the made world—a machine, run by dreary ghosts: known as people. It was curious: the people were the ghosts of the buildings, the skeleton; but the skeleton was also the ghost of the people, and the only one they had. A mosquito buzz was all the meaning it had.

Andrew kept on his climb of the hill, up the steps, angry and more angry.

Once one gets to the Biological Sciences building one is at the top. One is on the flat of the hill, the hill with its flat-top hairdo. Only, the buildings surround you and tower above you—cut off the moon.

Through some of the windows there were lights; figures of men working away at chemicals and cultures before laboratory equipment, eccentric silhouetted shadowy tubing and beakers and liquid-holding flasks. Erie glass pieces casting erie shadows. Erie shadows of men floating among the tabletops, all in white shirts and dark ties.

Andrew hurried his step.

His moon had been cut off, he was guideless for the moment. Complex of buildings like a maze all around him, each filled with erie black and white kaleidoscopic phantasms. Hurry! He must hurry around the shadows of these buildings.

Suddenly there stood the moon again, golden cheeks leaning down to him. Come on, Andy, come on!

Beyond the parking lot there were trees, and he quickly crossed to one. The moon hung her shoulders among the branches and leaned wistfully down. He sat against the tree. Down leaned the moon, putting her white face almost to his.

At length the moon spoke:

“What you need is a girl, Andy, some girl.”

There was no arguing with that, so our fellow hung his head in shame.

“Get a girl!” pleaded the moon, face close to him. “Get a girl, Andy, or you betray me.”

“But who?”

“It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.”

But look at them all down there, he thought. Mosquitos! They buzz at you, behind your ears. They boogie like blind bugs on Lumpkin! They are ghosts in the machine—perverse—fake.

“You need a girl, Andy, any girl.”

But look at them! All their makeup. Earrings. Purple eyelashes, moist red lips that come off on touch. There are no girls.

“Surely there is one—any one—surely you can find one girl, Andy.”

“How? Damn you moon how? How?”

The moon backed away, stung, and also to consider.

Andy was walking again. Down a little path through the trees, and before long came to a foot bridge. Dark, wooden, and you couldn’t see the boards, how rotten they were. A wire mesh ran down the side of it as if protection for rotten boards. He ventured out.

The moon darted down at the bridge, to get his attention.