When In London...

…go to The Library. (Yes, it’s in caps for a reason.)

Oh man. As is usual I’ve done so much stuff since the last time I posted that I can’t even keep it all straight.

I’ve been doing a lot of going out and exploring London. Last weekend (I can’t believe it was only last weekend — the time moves so strangely here, I swear!) I went with some of my friends and did a tour of the Houses of Parliament on the last day that the offer tours before the fall session of parliament starts up again. It was actually really awesome, I’d recommend it to anyone who happens to be in London and has a passing interest in history or politics. The Parliament building itself has portions that date back to 1300. I have stood upon the spot where Charles I stormed the parliamentarians debating in the House of Commons and threatened them with their arrest; I have walked up the steps atop which the aforementioned king was tried and beheaded by the English people, the first king in western history to meet such a fate. Guy Fawkes was tried in that same room. Every year before the state opening of parliament, the security team does a sweep through the basements, just to make sure that no one’s trying the same trick again. I think I have to credit at least some of my enjoyment of it to my Milton class; without the brush-up on English political history that I received from Milton’s works, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the historical aspects of the place nearly as much.

This Friday, I also spent a full day in London. Me and Sam and Jess (two other girls here with the UC exchange program) woke up early to get to the theatre box office when it opened and secure 15 pound front row seats to the recently-opened production of Breakfast at Tiffany’s starring Anna Friel (from Pushing Daisies) and Joseph Cross (from Milk and Running with Scissors), which ended up being a fantastic play. I didn’t really remember much about the movie, except that I hadn’t quite liked it as much as I’d hoped I would when I first saw it, but the play was much better than my memory of the movie. Both the leads played their parts very well, though I particularly fell in love with Cross’s facial expressions, which were perpetually spot-on (and generally adorkable).

Between purchasing the tickets in the morning and going to see the play at night, me and Sam and Jess went to the Churchill Museum and War Rooms, housed underground in a building in Whitehall where, serious to God, Churchill and his underlings actually directed the Second World War. The museum and displays were extensive and we spent three hours in there, finally exiting only in response to the groans of our underfed stomachs.

Also, I should say that on our way to the Churchill Museum, we saw a short convoy of official-looking vehicles leaving Buckingham Palace area via Trafalgar Square. There were policemen who stopped traffic, and the people in the cars waved at us. We didn’t know who they were but Sam took a picture and later figured out that one of them was Camilla Parker Bowles!

After we ate lunch (at Pret, an eating establishment whose praise I will have to sing in another entry) we hopped on the tube and made the pilgrimage to the British Library. I may have mentioned my reaction to seeing the British Library for the first time this summer, but for those of you who do not already know, it’s pretty easy to sum up: I am in love with the British Library. One of my main goals in life is to undertake some sort of literary research that is sufficient enough excuse for me to get a reader’s card at the British Library. In the one room of the collection that is viewable to the public reside more treasures than any grand museum or art gallery (in my opinion, of course). In fact, three of the most stunningly beautiful works of art I have ever seen lie practically side-by-side in a stretch of glass case less than 5 feet long.

First, one of John Milton’s “commonplace books,” in which he would record his observations and thoughts about articles that he read, current events, and debates in the public arena. The pages to which this particular book is set open are a record of some of his early readings on the subject of monarchy, and how a monarch may rightfully rule. It’s hard to read some of it even though his handwriting’s clear, because he switches from English to French to Latin seemingly at whim depending upon which source he’s quoting or commenting upon. Page numbers and article titles are minutely detailed, presumably so that Milton could look these works back up if he so desired. There, in his own hand, are the seeds of political thought that would later justify the execution of an unjust king and attempt to create the authority necessary for Cromwell’s parliamentary government to succeed. There, in that ink, is the beginning of the story that does not end in the failure of the revolution, or even Milton’s death. His words became the inspiration for the revolutionaries that followed him.

Second, the manuscript copy of the last chapter of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, in a cramped and practically illegible hand, scrawled on small pieces of paper that, as the explanatory note informs the viewer, were likely intended to be so small that Austen could hide them away quickly if someone caught her at her writing. The pages have been backed and bound into a small volume that lies open upon Jane Austen’s own writing desk, a small inclined wooden surface inlaid with a green velour material that’s lost its plush over time, with spots for inkwell, quill, and glasses. Sometimes, looking at it makes me feel as though Austen herself has just been writing there, and been distracted for a moment, leaving her manuscript out so that she might return to finish it any moment now.

Third, Charlotte Bronte’s complete “fair copy” of Jane Eyre, perpetually open to the final chapter’s triumphant declaration: “Reader — I married him.” Charlotte’s hand is easy to read, much easier than either Milton or Austen, and as much as I admire seeing the other two specimens behind the glass, this is the one I would most like to remove from the case, to read through with my own two hands upon the pages where hers once rested. It makes my heart catch in my throat, just a little, to think that someday I might actually have that chance, if I become the kind of professor that I may be becoming, someone important enough to the world of scholarship that that hallowed volume might be taken gently out from its enclosure and placed upon a table in a small, quiet room just for me.

It seems strange now (as it seemed strange then) to come out of this temple of literature and go back to the world outside, where it was raining (apparently it does that here). We made our way back to Covent Garden, where I had a dinner of paella that I watched being made by a man running a food stand outside. They’re British, so rain doesn’t stop them!

I’ve spent the rest of the weekend getting work done mostly, since next weekend I am making my first journey further abroad. From Thursday through Sunday, I will be in Rome, staying with my aunt and exploring the city with my friend Andy, who’s an English major at Berkeley and who is studying abroad at Trinity College in Dublin. I’ve also made plans to go to Paris with friends at the end of the month — in fact, I will begin writing my NaNoWriMo novel (which I still need to figure out, but more on this later) in that magical city. It also seems likely that I will be visiting Berlin and Vienna and/or Prague during the second week of November. Part of me feels terribly guilty that I’ll be spending so much money, but most of the time that part is quickly shut up by the fact that this is most likely a once in a lifetime experience and I should make the most of it while I can. Besides, I can always take a vow of poverty when I get home.