Stephen Richards

Felix died on 9 February 2008, at the age of 72, as the result of complications after an operation on 23 January. He had been with UMUC since 1969. I got to know him through visiting his classes in Spangdahlem; my last meeting with him was in November of 2007. Typical of Felix, he replied to my emailed class visit letter with a typed 'snail mail' letter.

He used to visit India, which was really his second home, for three months each year, taking off term 3 to do so. The last time I saw him, we talked of his spiritual search on his visits to India, and he told me of an 'out of body' experience he had had the previous year that indicated to him that the spirit may indeed exist independently of the body. We also talked of Pushkar, which I had also visited. He wrote in the above mentioned letter, dated 29 November 2007:

"So it is Pushkar where Brahma dropped the lotus petal. I remember the lake but not the white houses, because I was in Pushkar during the town's yearly camel fair when Indian crowds become too vast for my taste. I slept in the tent camp with my valuables inside my pillowcase. I remember beggars posturing as invalids, hawkers, and many a male sufferer from diarrhoea making his way between the camels. My last impression of Pushkar came when we were leaving the fair by car and passing by a side of the lake. Here  flimsily dressed young Western women were holding court, surrounded by young Indian hopefuls who was still in the oggling stage; after all, the sun had only just come up."

Felix was all prepared to go to India again the following month. But on his doctors' advice, he underwent the operation to prevent further complications and greater suffering that would have arisen had it been delayed.

Felix was in many ways a typical UMUC instructor of the old school, extremely concerned and compassionate towards his students but having little patience with administrative directives from Heidelberg. To quote the faculty newsletter of March 2008: "The world is certainly a grayer place for his passing. In particular his students, colleagues, and the education center staff in Spangdahlem will miss his warm and caring spirit."

Sara Roth

Beautifully written, Stephen.  I found the part about 'little patience' particularly amusing.  I, too, was the recipient of several of those typewritten notes, back-in-the-day.  And, I can still hear him saying, in that deep, resonant voice, "Ms. Sara!"

Albert Ashforth

When I arrived in Heidelberg to go to work for UMUC, Felix was the first instructor I met. That was in January 1972, a long time ago, but I remember Felix and the occasion very clearly. I wanted to know what the job was like, and Felix told me he of the many opportunities I would have working in the Overseas Program. He was not only engaging, he was intelligent, and made a great impression. Shortly afterward, he asked if I would like to join him on a trip to the shopping center. Unfortunately, I had to decline because I still hadn't gotten an ID card. Over the years I would encounter Felix from time to time. In addition to being thoughtful and friendly, he had a quiet sense of humor.

Joe Arden

"Cosmopolitan"----"Sophisticated"---"Scholarly"---"Learned"---"A Gentleman"--

"Intellectually Stimulating"---"Excellent Teacher"---"Professionally Responsible"

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When the name Felix Rysten comes to mind...I think of the above terms.

When seeing/interacting with Felix...whether in Belgium, Holland, Spain...And, in Asia,

where I persuaded him to come and teach/spend time...in the late 1970s.   Or, whether

enjoying white wine with him...around the world.

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Maryland and his many students...were most fortunate that Felix taught so many years

with the program.

Richard Schneider

Felix was my best bud for my entire 5-year run with the European Division (along with Tom Crain, who had been my college roommate). Our friendship was in its infancy when I was injured in an accident in Paris just a few months after starting with the ED in 1982. Felix faithfully visited me at l’Hôpital Bichat every other weekend (alternating with Jenny Jacobs) until I was released three months later. He brought me books to read and music to listen to on my Walkman – along with his ever-entertaining (nay, dazzling!) company.

After that, Felix and I were constant companions – at least whenever I was assigned to a gig in Kaiserslautern – for the duration of my years in Europe. How many weekend trips to Paris and Strasbourg did we take together? Not to mention a few journeys to Amsterdam in Felix’s homeland, where he finally got to speak his native language. (He also spoke English, German, and French indifferently.) But what I remember the most fondly are all those dinners at the Gondola, where we used to meet after our evening teaching duties at Ramstein were done – all those pilsners on tap and pasta primaveras! Felix’s poisons were Campari and game (oh, and cigarettes).

Other than that, what can one say about Felix? He grew up on a plantation in Dutch Guiana (as it was then called), went to college and grad school in southern California – almost had a career in Hollywood – spent many years teaching in the Asian Division, but was European through and through. To say that he was cosmopolitan or worldly would be tautological. He taught me how to appreciate Post-Impressionist art and how to filet a trout.

We kept in touch for many years after my return to the U.S., but eventually it fell into an annual card—my fault. Felix was an epic letter-writer, but I became a creature of the Internet, which Felix never quite got the hang of. I learned of his demise through the grapevine, a few months after the fact, which was itself kind of sad. Needless to say, I was crestfallen, though not totally surprised. Still, I had always assumed that I would make it back to Europe so we could have one last tango in Paris before the end. Too late! But at last I’m able to put some of my thoughts and feelings down to remember this wonderful man who really saved my life. Thank you, Felix.

Marianne Di Pierro

Tribute to Dr. Felix Rysten

by

 Marianne Di Pierro, Ph.D.

What can one say about the power of true intellectualism, compassion, and ethics to create an existentialist matrix, a framework for living authentically?  That was Felix Simon Antony Rysten. His passion for literature awakened the sleeping giants of human potential in many of his students, particularly women, whose lives were subsumed into their military husbands’ overseas careers and whose voices fell, too often, into an unsettling silence.  Felix penetrated that silence and taught us to discover our own voices by holding up the mirror to human experience, reflected through literature and the oeuvre of so many writers, men and women both, searching for those diamond facets of a life lived well. 

From the first of so many of his courses to the last, I fell in love with his vast knowledge, an expertise rare and compelling that inspired my own career pathway and blessed my endeavors with awareness of the fact that one must aspire to excellence, even if one does not always reach those lofty heights. The effort itself is laudable.

Felix had a rare ability to encourage us to seek beyond mere possibilities, to transform them into realities by overcoming challenges.   It was he who inspired me not to fall into the abyss when completion of my undergraduate degree from the University of Maryland was challenged by my husband’s abrupt change in orders to leave Germany and take command of an isolated MUNSS site in northern Italy, where an extension program was not available. Only half-way through my program, I was devastated to think that I would have to surrender this goal. With Felix’s encouragement, I rose to the occasion, taking the remaining courses during any available offering:  on weekends and alternate weekends; at “tea time”; during evenings, and at any time that the required courses were scheduled.  “You can do this, and you will,” he said. I likened myself to that proverbial “mad woman in the attic” who refused to be confined.  Somehow, between helping my small children with homework; serving hastily-made dinners; and pounding out assignments on my typewriter, I managed to finish my degree and move to Italy.

Once there, I struggled to cultivate my own identity beyond that of “commander’s wife.” Yet again, Felix was there to serve as an academic advisor through a master’s-level extension program in English Literature, a rarity in higher education at that time.  He travelled to Italy from Germany by train on numerous occasions to ensure the quality of the thesis that he was directing and to visit, sharing Italian cuisine at little bistros in Rivoltella del Garda, the town in which I lived, and near-by Lago di Garda. Of course, he regaled my children with fabulous humorous stories and impressed the Italian military officers with his profound linguistic fluency, as well as his magically captivating British accent.

Our work together served as a ballast to my life, imbuing my world with a special purpose and enriching it in profound ways that cannot always be described. Those visits did not end in Italy but continued as my husband’s career wended its way back to the United States, to Virginia, Nevada, Ohio, Florida, and Michigan. Throughout this time, we wrote many letters to each other, letter writing now a dead art, it appears. It has surrendered to  electronic communication:  no lovely handwriting on beautiful stationery featuring elegant stamps.

 Felix was an enlightened observer in life, with a keen ability to detect the fragmented details that bespeak to the more expansive understanding of human nature and the ways in which we interact with each other: the “telling detail,” as he would say.  These images are reflected in his letter writing. To this day, I still have all of Felix’s letters, tucked away into a red leather bag: memories of his many trips to India, recollections of family members, lost loves, teaching philosophy, his relationships with the many people who shared his life, and the vast experiences that framed his world.

How do we get to the essence of what it was like to share part of one’s life with a special person? So much is known, and yet so much remains concealed, a mystery that opens to limitless exploration.    For certain, I know that I was in the presence of greatness, and that I was blessed.

For now, I like to imagine Felix feasting on the fine cuisine at La Gondola, drinking wine, smoking a cigarette, and writing another letter – to me, perhaps.