This tribute was written by the author upon hearing of the death of his mentor and friend, Roy Bhaskar on 19 November 2014. Roy was the originator of Critical Realism.
I didn’t see him come in the first time I heard him speak. I remember looking up from my desk, and suddenly there he was, seated before the class–“enthroned,” I think, is the more precise word. For a while, I seriously couldn’t figure out who or what he was. He was wearing what I would eventually learn was typical Roy Bhaskar attire: his oversized John Lennon glasses, a large purple sweater, the longest hair I’ve seen on any man, and the widest, friendliest and kindest grin (if you can ever imagine a kind grin).
Even then, at first sight, everything about Roy seemed larger than life. It was 2010, and Roy had been invited to give a talk on Critical Realism to our class of international post-graduate research students at the Institute of Education. When he spoke, he did so with the gentlest and most lucid voice. I suspect that half of us didn’t understand half the things he said that day, but the little that I did sparked something in me. He spoke of how science and philosophy had gotten it wrong and invited us to embrace ‘this messy, beautiful world’. I was smitten.
It was only after the talk that I noticed the wheelchair parked by the classroom door. Later, I learned that Roy had lost one foot to Charcot’s disease. As he was wheeled out smiling and waving at us, I found myself intrigued and in greater awe of the man. Over lunch that day, I couldn’t stop talking about our session with my classmates from Asia, who collectively stared back at me with a mix of bewilderment and amusement. I must have sounded seriously obsessed to them because for the afternoon session that same day, they marched into class with a copy of Roy‘s Reclaiming Reality that they had grabbed from the nearby Waterstone bookshop as a gift for me. That was sweet, and it was to be of my first of many of Roy‘s books.
During his talk, Roy had invited anyone with any interest in Critical Realism to drop in his office anytime–which I did, but as I discovered after several attempts that week, you didn’t just ‘drop in’ his office–or any professor’s office–without an appointment because of course he wasn’t always there. I assumed that was that and resigned myself to learning about Critical Realism through his book. Anyway, I told myself, I have twelve hours to fly back to the Philippines. So, armed with my brand new copy of Reclaiming Reality, I settled on my seat as I found it on the plane and without a glance at my seatmates and even before the safety instructions, I buried my nose into Roy‘s book, determined to finish it and understand Roy‘s philosophy by the time we landed in Manila.
Of course anyone who knows Roy‘s books need not be told that there was no way that it was going to happen. Roy‘s books aren’t exactly the best reading fare on flight, or on a train, in bed or in a couch–unless you have his IQ. For mere mortals like myself, you’ll need to nail your butt to a seat, and condemn yourself to hours of some pretty serious reading and note-taking. You also have to resist the occasional temptation of yielding to your frustration, of slashing your wrist, or banging your head against your desk. As Roy told me later, ‘You have to be willing to work hard in order to understand.’
I got the chance not only to ‘work hard’ at understanding Roy‘s ideas, but also to work closely with him. My thesis supervisor had left the IOE, and I needed a new supervisor. Roy happily and graciously agreed to supervise my thesis, marking the beginning of an exciting long-distance relationship. I would study Critical Realism after office hourse from my day job as a school administrator in Manila, and Roy would be emailing and/or Skyping with me. I used to marvel at the faithful and persistent way that he checked on my progress–something I didn’t quite expect from thesis supervisors in general, particularly not from someone of Roy‘s stature. It took a while before I caught on and finally wrapped my mind around it: As all his students and collaborators would attest, Roy was simply sincerely interested in our work and ideas.
Upon his encouragement, I joined a couple of international conferences. At the conference in Grahamstown, South Africa, Roy insisted on meeting one-on-one with me even if he was visibly exhausted between sessions. He was also constantly waving at me from across rooms to go over to him so that he could introduce me to his critical-realist friends. ‘You must meet so-and-so!’ he would say. ‘And have you spoken with so-and-so?’ Later on, I learned that he said the same about me. Roy loved connecting people as much as he loved connecting with them.
For the Research Weeks that I flew to London, I would meet with him, and Roy always seemed genuinely pleased to see me. Once I brought a copy of The Formation of Critical Realism and asked him for his autograph. I remember being struck by how surprisingly miniscule his handwriting was. How ironic, I thought, given his stature and his spirit.
Roy was consistently supportive and encouraging. Whenever we met to discuss a draft I had submitted, he would take out my draft, invariably peppered with colorful post-its and notes he had written in his miniscule penmanship, and without fail, would commence by saying, ‘This is, of course, excellent!’ He said that so often and so casually that once I actually looked him in the eye and said, ‘Roy, I’m not sensitive, you know, and you will tell me if what I write sucks, won’t you?’ He laughed saying, ‘Oh you can be sure I will. Don’t you worry about that!’ And sure enough he did. For every draft I sent him, he would read painstakingly, patiently pointing out misunderstandings and correcting them, as the most minute punctuation, spelling, and typographical errors. Those sessions were always eye-opening and inspiring, for Roy had the gift not only of explaining the most complex of ideas, but just as importantly, of making you feel valued.
As a teacher Roy was as sneaky as he was charming. He knew that I had no intention of using his Philosophy of MetaReality for my thesis, so to my horror one afternoon, he requested me to give not one, but two reports on it for our post-graduate seminar class. I spent two weeks, not without some reluctance, sinking my teeth into his Reflections on MetaReality and Philosophy of MetaReality, but before I knew it, I actually began to understand what he was trying to say and resonated with it. When I later confessed to him my reluctance and eventual conversion, he just sat there and beamed.
Roy was so eager and passionate about helping others understand Critical Realism that sometimes he couldn’t help interrupting you when you reported on it. ‘It’s in the next slides,’ I would tell him after every interruption, but to our amusement, Roy would go on anyway.
The last time I saw Roy was on the 13th of November, just six days before he died. We had already postponed our meeting several times because he was suffering from the flu, but this time Roy insisted on meeting even if as he wrote in his email, he was ‘currently still unwell’. I told him that we shouldn’t meet until he got better, but–to my eternal gratitude–he refused to postpone the meeting.
I found him alone in his office, looking frail–an adjective I never imagined I would ever use for him. When I asked him how he was feeling, he spoke of his flu, his swollen stump, and a pulled and painful shoulder. He explained how the situation was particularly difficult because his swollen stump prevented him from using his prosthetic leg and he couldn’t be as mobile as he needed to be.
We briefly discussed the report that he had requested me to make the next Monday, and then he took out the last draft I had submitted, and I could see that the pages were full of the usual multi-colored post-its and notes: His flu hadn’t kept him from doing his usual thorough work. But this time he proceeded imeediately to discussing my conclusion and said that we would discuss the other pages some other time.
For a while there, as we discussed, I forgot about his ailment. Despite his condition, Roy, the quintessential philosopher and teacher, was in his element.
When we finished, he looked at me and made a strange comment. Quite out of the blue, he told me, ‘Oh, but Johnny, you don’t need me anymore for your thesis!’ Which bewildered me because I was nowhere near the completion of my thesis. I didn’t know it then, but it seems to me now that it was his way of saying goodbye.
He just smiled. And right before I stepped out, he said, ‘By the way, Andrew Wright has just joined the Institute of Education; in fact, he’s right next door. You must speak with him about your thesis!’ Even then he remained characteristically interested in connecting Critical Realists and building that community. I promised him I would.
Roy‘s funeral at the Islington and Camden Crematorium on the 4th of December was packed with family, friends, colleagues, and students. We were instructed to wear colorful attire to celebrate the life and works of Roy. We laughed and cried as we listened to people’s recollections of the man who had made such a difference not only in the world of philosophy, but in our personal worlds as well.
The funeral was supposed to bring me closure. These days I’m trying to work on my thesis as though everything is normal, but of course it’s not. I miss Roy, his kindness, his encouragement, his friendship. I will always be indebted to him for taking me under his wings and inviting me to find my Critical Realist voice and to use it–yes, even now and especially now. And I am grateful that he had insisted on that last meeting with me, his illness notwithstanding, to give me a final gift, a final blessing. We shook hands before I left his office that final meeting, and to this day, I can’t forgive myself for not giving in to a sudden inexplicable urge to hug my teacher and friend.