My visits to the London Library never cease to amaze and delight me. The people are as interesting as the books. Today yielded a possible sighting of Jeremy Paxman (or at least a lookalike); a lady in an electric blue silk jacket studying Indian architecture and someone, no doubt the product of a decent public school, wondering if he would get into his club dressed as he was in a formal dark suit, tie and red converse baseball boots.
I keep a running list of volumes to peruse next time I'm at the Library and add to it as books on blogs and (rarely) the review pages catch my attention. Part of the fun is tracking the books down in the caverns of the library. Today thirty minutes of navigating the labyrinthine corridors, secret staircases and metal grilles masquerading as floors (which allow you to see from the fourth floor of one particular building straight down into its basement); of hunting the pre-Dewey classifications of S. Birds, L. Literature, Hist. of (Gen), of finally crossing the Hogwarts-type invisible bridge into Biog. L to M and yet even then going up a flight too far and being marooned in Theology before finding what looked like a metal step-ladder down to Biog A to K, left me convinced that no sight in the world surpasses the beauty of a sign saying 'Exit to Main Stairs'.
Eventually though the haul consisted of:
Flights of Fancy by Peter Tate, its subtitle explains it all: birds in myth, legend and superstition. At 162 pages it covers a couple of dozen birds but is fascinating and nicely illustrated.
Goldberg Variations by Gabriel Josipovici. I can't remember which blogger(s) have been reading this, but after loving Moo Pak, I have been meaning to read more of Josipovici's fiction and he's on the great 2008 reading plan (some time in the summer, I think but the London Library's lending periods are understandingly generous).
Living by Fiction by Annie Dillard, the only one of her works the Library had that I haven't. Looks good, especially part two which wonders why anyone is still writing traditional fiction and why there has been no radical revolution despite the upheavals of the Modernists. So a double hit here: it's by Dillard, my new favourite writer, and it dovetails with my 2008 Modernist writing plan. I bet she anticipated that particular conjunction of events when she published the book in 1982.
L'Etranger by Albert Camus. Because I'm piqued by the apparent inaccuracy of what is for me a very clear memory. So I'm going to re-read the book. I reached page 17 on the train home and am jubilant to find my French still in working order.
Soren Kierkegaard: an Introduction to his Life and Philosophy by Peter Rohde. The least scary, not in Danish, book I could find. (I was going to say, the only Noddy guide I could find. And then I saw this listing on Amazon. Bizarre.) Also, in the Department of Never Too Old to Discover an Embarrassing Hole in One's Knowledge, I find he's pronounced kier-kir-gaw. Well, I was two thirds right.
Singer on the Shore: Essays 1991-2004 by Gabriel Josipovici. I'm in the mood for literary essays at the moment, and just to join the dots, this volume contains an essay on that man whose name begins with 'K' and ends in a way not at all predictable from the presence of a 'D'.
Memoirs of a Seafaring Life by William Spavens, an Eighteenth century seaman who I'm hoping will weigh in with help on some nautical terms for my shipwreck which I actually got round to writing on Monday and found to be utter tripe when I typed it up on Tuesday (clearly the Fairy of Rubbish Writing visited overnight and sprinkled the same five adjectives liberally on every single paragraph, before erasing my exciting narrative and replacing it with a shipwreck as exciting as an evening in with a cup of cocoa).
As I took my spoils to the issue desk I hoped they looked eclectic and wide ranging, but frankly am prepared to settle for good old random.