Duke University Alumni Magazine

oward the end of her lyrical, literary autobiography, Helen Bevington ponders the difference between tourists and travelers. The former, she observers, complain about the surroundings, have excessive expectations, amass souvenirs. Travelers, on the other hand, revel in the moment, embrace the local culture, delight in the journey. It is a fitting analogy for Bevington's own life.

     A Duke professor emeritus of English, Bevington has taught creative writing; contributed to the New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, and The New York Times Book Review; and written a number of well-received books, including three volumes of autobiography. In this, her fourth, she reflects on her own life and those of others, the stay-at-home poets and the wandering adventurers. Through her curiosity at how others conduct themselves, and her willingness to share anecdotes of her own, she emerges as a true traveler, a pragmatist who recognizes the dangers and setbacks along the way, but a seasoned optimist as well, cager to take the next promising, unpredictable path.

     The title of the book refers to Bevington's quest to find a way to live and thrive that is different from the ways chosen by her parents. Divorced when Bevington was two, her mother never remarried and died at nearly ninety, living alone yet calmly accepting of her fate, Bevington's father, whose cherished second wife died leaving him in an inconsolable state of grief, chose to commit a slow, wasting suicide. The book finds Bevington, who still lives in Durham, dedicated to discovering a third way, one that avoids the loneliness of isolation and the hopelessness of despair. But having been through her own share of pain -- her husband's death, her son's suicide -- Bevington is forced to confront the doubts and fears that have plagued humankind throughout time.

     "The obligation not to be unhappy -- it makes sense as a provident way, not found by chance or available for the asking," she writes. "There are nights of seeming panic when tomorrow can't be imagined, and you wait it out till daylight to begin another day. You marvel at the terror of existence."

     How, then, to untangle the mysteries of this mortal coil! Bevington finds compelling lessons -- both praiseworthy and pitiable -- in history and literature, from Socrates and Sappho to Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf. In short passages that last no more than a page or three, she relays fascinating details about whole lives unfulfilled or single moments of utmost clarity. She segues effortlessly between being both an objective scholar and (mild) moral judge, recounting, for example, the high price of heedless couplings (Claire Clairmont and Lord Byron) or the brave stand of cultural contrarians (Lucy Stone, a nineteenth- century feminist believed to he the first woman to retain her maiden name upon marriage), There are quotes from philosophers and rogues, examples of selflessness and greed.

     Bevington wants to assure the reader, and herself, that there is consolation in considering both extremes. Venturing into unchartered territory, however noble the intent, has its risks. Saints can stumble. At the same time, an error in judgment doesn't have to spell out a remaining, wretched existence. We can recover, at least in part, from mistakes and heartbreaks. Perhaps, she suggests, we can count on the future only to the extent that we accept that life vacillates between expectation and accomplishment. Bevington finds comfort in Marcus Aurelius' view that "the end to seek in life is not happiness," she writes. "It is peace of mind."

     An engaging writer of both prose and poetry (which she generously shares throughout the book), Bevington brings warmth and humor to whatever subject she chooses. Her formidable intellect is tempered by honest self-reflection. Few writers could embrace a range of topics -- Dante's Inferno, the Big Bang theory of the universe, the preferred color of gardens, Ingmar Bergman films, Duke professor J.B. Rhyne's extrasensory perception experiments, the Bloomsbury group, the habits of writers, and the quirks of artists -- with the agility and accessibility that Bevington does.

     The Third and Only Way is a sparkling gift to anyone, young or old, who wonders about this delicate dance of life. She may occasionally find herself alone, sitting under a tree reflecting on the progression of years, but she will always have the company of an appreciative audience that awaits her next revelation. As she herself admits in the poem, "And Yet," Bevington has certainly gleaned enough wisdom to go around:

And yet it's always so:
The way you try to outwit nemesis
And laugh at doom, mock fate, show
Disrespect for wrath, escape
Your destiny. But, look, it's only
Part of the jest, the same absurdity.
And I'm the one to know.

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