Christopher De Hamel, Meetings with Remarkable Manuscripts: Twelve Journeys into the Medieval World
(New York: Penguin Press, 2017), pp. 330, 333:
I took the Latin option at school, not because I had any particular aptitude for it
(I hadn't), but because I was generally worse at nearly everything else. It was a
local state school for boys, King's High School, in Dunedin, New Zealand,
where, with hindsight, the curriculum was even then very old-fashioned. We
struggled through the usual grammar and translation exercises. One day in the
sixth form, our Latin teacher — he was called Mr Dunwoodie — imaginatively
brought in a portable gramophone from home and a recording of the medieval
Carmina Burana set to music by Carl Orff (1895–1982). It was unforgettable.
We were all captivated by the haunting music and the sensuous rhythmical Latin
lyrics about girls and drinking and the manifest unfairness of fortune. To a
classroom of hormone-humming teenage boys, here was Latin which touched
the soul as Caesar's Gallic Wars had never done. We urged Mr Dunwoodie to
play it over and over again, assuring him that it was educational. To his credit, he
did. We soon knew many of the Latin verses by heart, and some I still do: o! o!
o! totus floreo, iam amore virginali, totus ardeo! — 'Oh! Oh! Oh! I am all in
bloom, now I am all burning with first love', and so on. We were just the right
age. This music was to us a seductive evocation of anarchic and amorous
medieval students vagabonding their way in verse and song across twelfth-century Europe, with a free-spirited ethos very like that of the mid-1960s. It is
quite likely that Latin masters in schools elsewhere in the world sometimes also
played the same record to their own classes at that time and our generation all
shared familiarity with these songs of lust and rebellion in Latin, which for that
purpose was still — just — serving as an international language.