I spent last week wrestling with a bad cold, which kept me at home for a few days, feeling very sorry for myself and unable to do anything more strenuous than drink even more tea than usual and watch copious amounts of
The Wire - to which I am a fairly late, but extremely enthusiastic, convert. I am into season 4 now and after having watched all 12 episodes of series 3 over a couple of days, I am trying to ration myself so I don't get through the last two seasons too quickly. This is proving difficult. I am also already faint with excitement at the idea of seeing Dominic West (aka McNulty) at the
Donmar Warehouse this winter. Someone pass the smelling salts...
But I digress. Feeling much more myself now, I spent yesterday working at home, as I have also been doing this morning, but after lunch, Duke Humfrey beckons me to return to him. Duke Humfrey's is the rare books and manuscripts reading room of the
Bodleian Library - the main library for the university.
Duke Humfrey himself is long dead and buried, as one of the librarians recently had to explain to a phone caller - 'No, madam, I'm not
actually Duke Humfrey...' - but his library lives on. It's a beautiful workspace, and although some of my friends complain that it is too dark and gloomy for their tastes, I find it atmospheric:
A lot of the material I have to consult for my research needs to be looked at here anyway, but even when I'm looking at more modern books, I tend to have them sent here, simply because I like it so much and find it a soothing and inspiring space to work. In truth, I am simply a sucker for anything old and pretty! By now, Duke H feels like something of a home from home: I am familiar with the librarians there, and the man on the gate who records people's entrances and exits is now able to greet me by name and write down the number on my university card (or Bod card, as it's generally known) from memory. This was a little unnerving at first, although not as unnerving as the moment when I was in M&S picking up some food, when I was pounced upon by one of the Duke H librarians. He told me that my books needed renewing and would I like him to do it for me when he got back? I accepted his offer gratefully, surprised but rather smug that I had been able to renew my books and buy my evening meal at the same time!
I recognise the other 'regulars' now, too, the ones who tramp up and down clutching sheafs of papers and muttering distractedly to themselves, or who sit staring intently at an old tome in complete silence - sometimes I wonder whether they've been there so long that they've forgotten to breathe - when suddenly they'll exclaim delightedly 'HA!!' and frantically scribble something down. These moments of ecstatic discovery never seem to happen to me, but seeing them occur to other people gives me some degree of hope! When I pause from my work, I sometimes find myself wondering who these people are, and what they're working on - are they historians or literary scholars, visitors from universities abroad or from just down the road? What is it that interests them so passionately, as they come day after day? What sort of people are they? Would I like them if we spoke together? Sometimes I can get quite carried away with this - I am terrible for constructing little imaginary histories for people I see - I do it in cafes too, trying to work out the relationships between people and wondering what their lives are like. People-watching in a cafe with a cup of coffee and something sweet is one of my favourite activities. It seems that my old friend Sir W was also inclined to make guesses about the people he encountered, although, as he describes here, sometimes it's better not to investigate whether the reality lives up to your imaginations! Today's extract comes from the essay 'Of Discourse', first published in 1600:
'In this time my eyes wandering to finde a handsome cause of Interruption, meete with a felow in blacke, backe again they come with their Intelligence and tel me they haue found a Scholler. I goe to this Vessell, and thirsting after some good licour, hastily pierce it, when there issueth medicines, or Lawe-tearmes: alas, it is either a Surgeon, or an Atturney, my expectation hath broken her neck. Well, these are places to grow fat in, not wise. Let vs trauell someplace else.'
Right, for now, I think I might just make myself another cup of tea, make sure the tissues are within reach, and retreat to my comfort reading again until I am feeling slightly more human myself! It is perhaps fortunate in such circumstances that I can say with Sir W (in his 1600 essay 'Of Fame') that as long as I can remember,
