The Round Table

 

I had always thought that an Arthurian round table offered equality, ensuring that all that sat around it had an equal opportunity to speak out, but I was wrong, for a round table does not offer any such democracy, as there is always someone directing the discussion to whom all eyes must turn.

I had imagined that each would have been able to speak in turn, visualising those sat at the table’s rim to be radiating invisible spokes, rather like those of a cart-wheel, spokes which would meet and cross with others at the centre. And naively, I had thought that at this centre, truth like the grail would then become manifest.

Perhaps if all were indeed equal this may well have been the case, but a distinct dearth of grail manifestations attests that such equality is rarely found.

As soon as someone is the leader the magic of a round table is broken for invisible spokes no longer radiate to the heart of the table but turn to this one person. Some of these spokes will be short and others longer, but none of them would ever cross. Should someone speak to another across the table then there would later be the inevitable pull back towards the leader. So a round table with a leader creates a mathematical imbalance in which truth and equality could be lost

In Arthurian legend I’d thought that those chosen to sit closest to the king had the greater advantage. I hadn’t realised the special disadvantage that they faced, for when they turned to speak to the king due to the table’s curve there was nothing between them. They were thus terribly exposed; how much easier it must have been to face an irascible king with a good stretch of English oak between you and his wrath. Another disadvantage of sitting too close to the king when trying to make your point was that your close-coupled conversation would have left the others at the table feeling like resentful eaves droppers.

No wonder so many of the king’s favourites chose not to take up their seats by his side and instead found the perils of searching for questing beasts far more preferable.

No wonder the table was broken.

Unaware of any of this I was enchanted when I was taken into a room where a talk was about to be held and saw a round table.

I had no idea that when the speaker by chance sat by my side that I should have immediately leapt to my feet and made some excuse about questing beasts. Thoughts of capturing a yellow unicorn or a damp phoenix eluded me. Fool that I was I remained sitting in my place.

The speaker dished out pieces of paper containing a few facts from and our task was to build a character. After ten minutes of writing we then had to go into role, be that character, and answer her questions.

It was an excruciatingly experience. I found I could not slip into role at all. Worse I felt terribly exposed with everyone’s eyes on me. And worst of all I had to turn and face this tutor without any width of wood between us when it was my turn to answer her questions.

And that was when the real defect of the round table became apparent. There was no place to hide, when every radiating spoke pointed to you.

“Well your character isn’t interesting at all, far too bland,” the tutor stated dismissively, after I’d stuttered my unimaginative replies.

There is no way of hiding failure when you sit at a round table. If she had been a king my head would have rolled, and then bounced and then rested as a grim centrepiece. A warning to one and all.

Lancelot knew the pitfalls of a round table, as did many others. He too must have been shy.