On Beauty

by Zadie Smith

  ‘There are,’ said Jack, bringing his hands together, ‘a dyad of reasons why last month’s meeting was delayed, rescheduled . . . maybe in fact it would be more accurate to say repositioned, for this date, for January tenth, and I feel that before we can proceed with this meeting, to which, by the way, I warmly welcome you all after what I sincerely hope was a pleasurable – and most importantly – a restful Christmas break – yes, and as I say, before we do proceed with what promises to be a really rather packed meeting as far as the printed agenda is concerned – before starting I just wanted to speak briefly about the reasons for this repositioning, for it was, in itself, as many of you know, not entirely without controversy. Yes. Now. First, it was felt by several members of our community that the issues to be discussed in that upcoming – now realized – meeting were of a magnitude and a complexity that required – nay, demanded – proper, considered presentations of both sides of the argument presently under our collective spotlight – which is not to suggest the argument before us is of a plainly binary nature – I personally have no doubt that we will find quite the contrary is the case and that, in fact, we may find ourselves this morning aligned along several different points along the, the, the, the funnel, if it can be put that way, of the discussion we are about to have. And so in order to create that space for formulation we took it on advice – without a faculty vote – to delay that meeting, and naturally anyone who feels that the decision taken regarding that delay was taken without due discussion can make a notation of their objection in our online file system, which our own Liddy Cantalino has set up expressly for these meetings . . . I believe the cache is situated at Code SS76 on the Humanities web page, the address of which I should hope you are all already familiar with – is that . . . ?’ queried Jack, looking to Liddy, who sat on a chair beside him. Liddy nodded, stood up, repeated the mysterious code and sat back down. ‘Thank you, Liddy. So, yes. So there is a forum for complaint there. Now. The second reason – a far less fraught one, thank goodness – was the matter of simple time management, which had come to the attention of many of you and of myself and of Liddy, and it was her opinion, and the opinion of many of our colleagues who brought the issue to her attention, that at the very least the extreme – if you’ll excuse the hackneyed analogy – gridlock of events in the December calendar – both academic and social – was leaving very little time for the usual and necessary preparation that faculty meetings – if they are to have any real effect at all – really require, if not demand. And I think Liddy has a few words for us with regard to how we will go about future scheduling of this crucial meeting. Liddy?’

  Liddy stood once more and executed a brisk reshuffle of her bust. On her sweater reindeer were travelling unevenly, left to right.

  ‘Hey, folks – well, basically just to repeat what Jack just said there, we ladies on the admin side of things are rushed off our behinds in December, and if we’re gonna keep on with this hoo-hah of each department having a Christmas party as was pretty much decided last year, not to mention that we got practically every one of these kids chasing some kind of a recommendation in the week before Christmas, even though God only knows they get warned all through the fall not to leave recommendations to the last minute, but anyhoo – we just felt that it made more basic horse sense to give ourselves a little breathing space in the last week before the vacation so that I for one can know which way my ass is pointing come the New Year.’ This occasioned a polite laugh. ‘If you’ll excuse my French.’

  Everybody did. The meeting began. Howard pushed himself a little lower in his chair. He was not up to bat yet. He was third on the agenda, absurdly, although everybody in the room had surely come to hear the Monty and Howard road show. But first, the Welsh-born classicist and temporary Housing Officer Christopher Fay in his harlequin waistcoat and red trousers must speak for an unendurable amount of time about meeting-room facilities for graduates. Howard took out his pen and began to doodle on his notes, all the time straining to simulate a pensive look on his face that would suggest an activity more serious than doodling. The right to freedom of speech on this campus, though strong, must yet contend with other rights, rights that protect students at this institution from verbal and personal attack, from conceptual denigration, blatant stereotyping and any other manifestation of the politics of hate. Around this opening gambit, Howard drew a series of interlocking curlicues, like elegant branches, in the style of William Morris. Once the outlines were completed he got on to the business of shading. Once the shading was completed, more curlicues suggested themselves; the pattern grew until it took up most of the left-hand margin. He lifted the paper up from his lap and admired it. And then once more with the shading, taking a childish joy in not exceeding the lines, in submitting to these arbitrary principles of style and form. He looked up and pretended to stretch; this movement gave him an excuse to turn his head from right to left and to study the room for supporters and detractors. Erskine was sitting right across the room, surrounded by his Black Studies Department, Howard’s cavalry. No Claire, or no Claire that he could see. Zora, he knew, was sitting on a bench in the hallway going through her own speech, waiting to be called. Howard’s Art History colleagues were widely spaced but all present and correct. Monty – and this was a nasty shock – was a mere knight’s move behind him. He smiled and acknowledged Howard with a little bow, but Howard, shamefully undeserving of such courtesy, could only whip back round and press his pencil into his own knee. There is a word for taking another man’s wife – to cuckold. But what is the word for taking another man’s daughter? If there were such a word, Howard felt certain that Christopher Fay, with his publisher-friendly, highly sexualized perspective on the mores of the ancient world, would know it. Howard looked up at Christopher now, still on his feet, nimble as a jester, speaking spiritedly, the little rat’s tail at the back of his head flicking from side to side. He was the only other Brit on the faculty. Howard had often wondered what impression of the British, as a nation, his American colleagues must glean from their acquaintance with the two of them.

  ‘Thank you, Christopher,’ said Jack and then took a very long time to introduce Christopher’s replacement as temporary Housing Officer (Christopher was soon to be off on sabbatical to Canterbury), a young woman who now stood to speak of the recommendations Christopher had already outlined at great length. A wide-reaching, yet subtle movement, like a Mexican wave, passed through the room as almost everyone repositioned their backsides on their seats. One lucky sod now escaped through the squeaky double-doors – a feckless novelist on a visiting fellowship – but she did not retire unobserved. Beady Liddy watched her go and made a note. Howard now surprised himself by getting nervous. He went through his notes quickly, too agitated to follow his material sentence by sentence. It was almost time. And then it was time.

  ‘And now if you would turn your attention to the third item on our agenda for this morning, which relates to a proposed lecture series for this coming semester . . . and if I can ask Dr Howard Belsey, who is tabling a motion in relation to, to, to, this proposed lecture series – I refer you all to the notes that Howard has attached to your agendas, which I do hope you have given the proper time and consideration, and . . . yes. So. Howard, if you could . . . ?’

  Howard rose.

  ‘Maybe it would be more . . . if you . . . ?’ suggested Jack. Howard made his way through chairs to stand next to Jack, facing them all.

  ‘You have the floor,’ said Jack; he sat down and began to gnaw fretfully on his thumbnail.

  ‘The right to freedom of speech,’ began Howard, his right knee quivering uncontrollably, ‘on this campus, though strong, must yet contend with other rights . . .’

  Here Howard made the mistake of looking up and around him as public speakers are advised to do. He caught sight of Monty, who was smiling and nodding, like a king at a fool who has come to entertain him. Howard stumbled once, twice, and then, to remedy the problem, fixed his eyes on his sheet of paper. Now, inste
ad of embroidering lightly around his notes, improvising, throwing out witty asides and employing all the other loose, from-the-hip sophisms he had intended, he read rigidly and with great speed from his script. He came to a close abruptly and looked blankly at the next pencilled note he had left for himself, which said After outlining broad issues, get to point. Somebody coughed. Howard looked up and got another eyeful of Monty – the smile was demonic – and then back at his paper. He pushed his hair away from where the sweat was sticking it to his forehead.

  ‘Let me, um . . . Let me . . . I want to state my concern clearly. When Professor Kipps was invited, by the Humanities Faculty, to Wellington, it was to take part in the communal life of this institution and to offer a series of instructive lectures in one of his many, many, many areas of expertise . . .’ Here Howard got the light laugh he’d been hoping for and the fillip his confidence needed. ‘What he was expressly not hired to do was to make political speeches that potentially alienate and deeply offend a variety of groups on this campus.’

  Monty now stood, shaking his head in apparent amusement. He raised his hand. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘may I?’

  Jack looked pained. How he hated such conflict in his faculty!

  ‘Well, now, Professor Kipps – I think if we can just, just, just . . . if we can let Howard finish his pitch, as it were . . .’

  ‘Of course. I shall be patient and tolerant as my colleague defames me,’ said Monty with this same grin and sat back down.

  Howard pressed on: ‘I will remind the committee that last year members of this university lobbied successfully to ban a philosopher who had been invited to read here, but who, it was decided by these members, could not have a platform at this institution because he expressed, in his printed work, what were deemed to be “Anti-Israeli” views and arguments that were offensive to members of our community. This objection (although not an opinion with which I concurred) was democratically passed, and the gentleman was kept from Wellington on the grounds that his views were likely to be offensive to elements of this community. It is on exactly the same grounds that I stand before you this morning, with one key difference. It is not my habit or to my taste to ban speakers of different political colours from my own from this campus, which is why I am not requesting such a ban outright but rather asking to see the text of these lectures so that they may be considered by this faculty – with the view that any material that appears to us, as a community, to contravene the internal “hate laws” of this institution – as laid out by our own Equal Opportunities Commission of which I am the chair – can be excised. I have asked Professor Kipps, in writing, for a copy of his text – he has refused. I ask again, today, at the very least, for an outline of the lectures he intends to give. My grounds for concern are two: first, the reductive and offensive public statements the Professor has made about homosexuality and race and gender throughout his career. Second, his lecture series “Taking the Liberal Out of the Liberal Arts” shares a title with an article he recently published in the Wellington Herald, which itself contained sufficient homophobic material to convince the Wellington LesBiGay group to picket and obstruct any lectures that the Professor might give at this college. For those of you who missed that article, I have photocopied it – I believe Lydia will give these out to anyone who wishes to read it at the end of our session. So, to conclude,’ said Howard, folding his papers in half, ‘my proposal to Professor Kipps himself is as follows: that we will be given the text of the lectures; that, failing this, we will be given a proposed outline of these lectures; or, failing that, we shall be told this morning what the intention of the lectures is.’

  ‘Is that . . . ?’ queried Jack, ‘That’s the meat of your . . . so, I suppose we must turn to the Professor and . . . Professor Kipps, could you possibly . . .’

  Monty stood and held the back of the chair in front of him, leaning into it as if it were a lectern.

  ‘Dean French, it would be a pleasure. How entertaining all that was. I love liberal fairytales! So restful – they put no undue strain upon one’s mind.’ A nervous giggle from the faculty. ‘But, if you don’t mind, I will stick to fact for a moment and answer Dr Belsey’s concerns as directly as I possibly can. In answer to his requests I fear I must decline all three, given the free country I stand in and the freedoms of speech I claim as my inalienable right. I will remind Dr Belsey that neither of us is in England any more.’ This raised an actual laugh, stronger than the one Howard had received. ‘If it will make him feel better – I know how much the liberal mind likes to feel better – I hold myself completely responsible for the contents of the lectures I give. But I am afraid I am quite unable to answer his frankly bizarre request for their “intention”. In fact, I admit it surprises and delights me that a self-professed “textual anarchist” like Dr Belsey should be so passionate to know the intention of a piece of writing . . .’

  A sprinkle of mirthless intellectual laughter, of the kind one hears at bookshop readings.

  ‘I had no idea,’ continued Monty gaily, ‘what a stickler he was for the absolute nature of the written word.’

  ‘Howard, do you want to . . . ?’ said Jack French, but Howard was already speaking over him.

  ‘Look, my point here is this,’ declaimed Howard, turning to face Liddy as the nearest interlocutor, but Liddy was not interested. She was reserving her energies for Item 7 on the agenda, the History Department’s application for two new photocopiers. Howard turned back to the crowd. ‘How can he at one and the same time claim responsibility for his text and yet not be able to tell us what intention he has for the text?’

  Monty put his hands on each side of his own belly. ‘Really, Dr Belsey, this is too stupid to answer. Surely a man can write a piece of prose without “intending” any particular reaction, or at least he can and will write without presuming every end or consequence of that piece of prose.’

  ‘You tell me, mate – you’re the constitutional originalist!’

  This got a wider, more sincere laugh. For the first time, Monty began to look a little ruffled.

  ‘I will be writing,’ pronounced Monty, ‘of my beliefs concerning the state of the university system in this country. I will be writing employing my knowledge as well as my moral sense –’

  ‘With the clear intention of antagonizing and alienating various minority groups on this campus. Will he be responsible for that?’

  ‘Dr Belsey, if I may refer you to one of your own liberal lodestars, Jean-Paul Sartre: “We do not know what we want and yet we are responsible for what we are – that is the fact.” Now is it not you, Dr, who speaks of the instability of textual meaning? Is it not you, Dr, who speaks of the indeterminacy of all sign systems? How, then, can I possibly predict before I give my lectures how the “multivalency”,’ said Monty, enunciating the word with obvious disgust, ‘of my own text will be received in the “heterogeneous consciousnesses” of my audience?’ said Monty, sighing heavily. ‘Your entire line of attack is a perfect model of my argument. You photocopy my article but you do not take the time to read it properly yourself. In that article I ask: “why is there one rule for the liberal intellectual and another rule entirely for his conservative colleague?” And I ask you now: why should I offer the text of my lectures to a committee of liberal interrogators and thus have my own – much vaunted in this very institution – right to free speech curtailed and threatened?’

  ‘Oh, for fuckssake–’ flashed Howard. Jack leaped from his chair.

  ‘Umm, Howard, I’m going to have to ask you to mind your p’s and q’s there.’

  ‘No need, no need – I am not so delicate, Dean French. I was under no illusion that my colleague was a gentleman . . .’

  ‘Look,’ said Howard, his face budding rouge, ‘what I want to know – ’

  ‘Howard, please,’ said Monty scoldingly, ‘I did do you the courtesy of listening until you had finished. Thank you. Now: two years ago, at Wellington, in this great freedom-loving institution, a group of Muslim stude
nts requested the right to have a room given over to their daily prayers – a request Dr Belsey was instrumental in rebuffing, with the result that this group of Muslims is presently pursuing Wellington College through the courts – FOR THERIGHT,’ intoned Monty over Howard’s remonstrations, ‘for the right to practise their faith –’

  ‘And of course your own defence of the Muslim faith is legendary,’ taunted Howard.

  Monty assumed a face of historical gravity. ‘I support any religious freedom against the threat of secular fascism.’

  ‘Monty, you know as well as I do that that case has nothing to do with what we’re discussing today – this college has always maintained a policy of, of, non-religious activity – we do not discriminate – ’

  ‘HA!’

  ‘We do not discriminate, but all students are asked to pursue their religious interests outside of the confines of the university. But that case is an irrelevance today – what we’re discussing today is a cynical attempt to force upon our students what is basically an explicitly right-wing agenda disguised as a series of lectures on the –’