New College, University of Oxford (Copyright Paula Ambrossi)
Paula Ambrossi reflects on the annual PESGB Conference, New College, University of Oxford (22 – 24 March, 2024).
It was a pleasant March afternoon when I descended the train at Oxford and made my way to New College. The first thing that struck me was a sign at the entrance of the archway that said, ‘No entry beyond this point’, and it was the first privilege I experienced, and the building seemed to embrace me; or at the very least, admit me.
A welcome lunch and the friendly faces (some of which I knew) eased my first moments in the large dining hall. During my three days there, every time I was in the dining hall I sat with a different group of people. Every time I had a wonderful conversation and was glad to have met everyone that I did. One such person was Gray Felton. She had presented a paper called, ‘Unfurling inclusion: Deleuze and Leibniz amongst the foliage’. I wished I had attended her talk, but it is only possible to attend roughly 10 of the 30 presentations overall. The selection needs careful consideration, but one will still miss interesting talks. Gray was passionate about observing the unfurling nature of plants, and as a keen (but novice) gardener myself, I felt I understood the complex human-plant analogy she was proposing which paid particular attention to the observation of time.
During the pre-conference workshop chaired by Adrian Skilbeck. Áine Mahon, from University College Dublin, talked about the tensions between academic writing and one’s personal voice as evidenced in our intentional writing. She posed the question:
What might it mean to sidestep the conventional modes where we write for others and to write for ourselves instead? What might it mean to express on the page in ways that do justice to the complexity of our emerging identities as well as our research material? And what might it mean to move from fear to empowerment?
I pondered on this all throughout the conference, and wondered if there is indeed room for any form of academic dissent in philosophy, as opposed to just talk of dissent. Perhaps I ought to try it and see how far I get. I could start with that childhood memory of pretending to be an Oxford Scholar. Philosophically speaking, can any form of academic empowerment be found in the close inspection of child’s play, or in any sense of transcendental experience, outside its realm?
At the Holywell Music Hall, thought to be the first custom-built concert hall in Europe (1748), we heard the first of three Keynote speakers (one every day). Quassim Cassam talked about intellectual vices, a theme close to my own research. ‘How do we account for vices, or even the very charge of vices such as “arrogance” or “close-mindedness” on others?’ Cassam posed that gaining a genuine perspective on others’ reasons for believing something, what is known as Verstehen, can help us contextualize their beliefs, taking into account “the complex reasons for which people believe the things they believe or do the things they do” with some clear caveats. I had read Cassam before, and I found what he had to say insightful, particularly on the issue of conspiracy theorists. I wanted to talk to him afterwards, but during the crowed drinks reception I noticed he was surrounded by other tall men, eagerly talking to him. As a short woman, I found no space in that moment. It seemed like a fortress I was not inspired enough to break through. I let it go. On our way to the dining hall a more auspicious moment came along, I walked alongside him and we had a one-minute conversation.
‘Hello there’ I said, ‘I have read your work and I found it resonated with some of my own research on the intellectual segregation that takes place in schools…’ etc., etc. I showed him a flyer of my own recently published book. He skimmed through and asked if he could keep it. Of course, it was meant for him. He seemed, overall, to be a man of few improvised words. We parted ways at some imprecise moment.
That night I went to bed early, eager to write down some of my thoughts on the conference so far. It had been a long day, by train from the east coast, through the usual London chaos, my head buzzing with expectation. I was woken in the early hours by a flying goose honking by. I do love geese, and the whole college echoed its lonely sound. It could only mean spring.
After dinner I was asked if I had yet visited The Cloisters, which I hadn’t. It was very dark, but there was almost a full moon, so I decided to walk around The Cloisters in the pitch dark. I felt no sense of fear as I solitarily walked past the severe statues in the darkness. The moon illuminated one of the corridors, and I sat on the bench for a while. It was another privilege to be there, on my own, in the middle of the night, thoughts unfurling.
Something that had struck me about the conference was that despite taking place at Oxford, there was a complete absence of anyone from Oxford (bar one PhD student) in it. It was like we were there, but in some way we were not. Why were there no lecturers or professors representatives of Oxford University? Of course, I realized that Oxford was just a venue, and we were just tourists of a different kind. Another attendee had wondered earlier about the impact that a place like this (opulent, ancient, exclusive) would have on its student population. Would it make them look down on everything else, for what could possibly compare? What is this place really doing? Perhaps, like a shell of the fanciest sort, whoever lives in it carries its form around in some way? I stood up from the bench and looked around me. My phone was unable to capture the moonlight on the stone.
The last presentation I attended explored virtue diversity for multicultural character education, by Yun Chieh Lu. During the Q&A she was asked to exemplify some of what she said (always a dangerous thing in philosophy). Someone asked how ‘courage’ was different as a virtue in other cultures. She responded that in Chinese culture, for instance, maintaining harmony in the group is valued above individual virtues. Self-sacrifice for the good of the group could be seen as courage. I thought about my own practice as a lecturer and supervisor of many Chinese students in London. Perhaps I can now understand, a little bit, why they are not always forthcoming; to step forward is to leave the group behind, however temporarily.
It was another beautiful day when the conference came to an end after lunch. I took a brief detour past All Souls College on my way to the station. One day I should like to go there. I had looked at their past entrance exams which have the most delicious questions I have ever tasted in my life. I looked at its courtyard through the locked gates. It seemed completely alone and impenetrable. No signs of life anywhere. I went round the corner, to its main entrance. The door was closed. I stood on the opposite side of the road to see if there was any movement, for I wanted to go in. I waited for a while, but just like in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate factory, I could observe that, ‘nobody ever goes in… nobody ever comes out’. I walked to the door and pushed gently. It was locked. I don’t need all souls to help me at this point. I just need one. I walked away.
