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May. 14th, 2005 06:59 pmI am wreathed by aches, and despite them have had an exceptionally interesting day. The great thing about chronic illness is that life goes on regardless and that it can be curiously fun.
I just received a bunch of spam each email bearing one letter. Together they spelled "Hwaet", which wasn't quite right as I didn't teach anyone anything about Beowulf. I did teach my new manuscript class all about Cormac the egocentric Irish monk and showed them a copy of my favourite palimpsest.
Every time I start to teach a course about manuscripts I rediscover how much fun it all is and wonder why I am advising writers and researching wider cultural history these days when I could be looking at texts no-one has examined in 210 years. I found myself yearning for that strange Nottingham Arthurian mansucript today, while writing the opening words of the Oxford Roland on the whiteboard.
And all this sounds like some strange, warped code, which it isn't, truly. It is just nostalgia for my twenties. I am forty-four and allowed nostalgia. It is not my fault if my twenties were spent reading lots of variants of the Prose Tristan and pulling time sequences to pieces in Old French chronicles and drooling over the gore in the Mez cycle of epic legends.
I was inspired by describing how parchment comes into being (more gore) into buying stuff to store modern paper and prevent gore happening (when I can't find things I need). This I did on the way home, conveniently forgetting how hard it is to lug giant boxes home while carrying groceries and teaching materials. I got nearly there and a passing stranger hoyed me and kindly drove me the rest of the way. I must have looked like an ant struggling with a giant breadcrumb. This is one appreciative ant. And now I must go and assemble my bits of plastic and fix some of my filing system. Who knows, by tomorrow maybe my table will be visible again.
I just received a bunch of spam each email bearing one letter. Together they spelled "Hwaet", which wasn't quite right as I didn't teach anyone anything about Beowulf. I did teach my new manuscript class all about Cormac the egocentric Irish monk and showed them a copy of my favourite palimpsest.
Every time I start to teach a course about manuscripts I rediscover how much fun it all is and wonder why I am advising writers and researching wider cultural history these days when I could be looking at texts no-one has examined in 210 years. I found myself yearning for that strange Nottingham Arthurian mansucript today, while writing the opening words of the Oxford Roland on the whiteboard.
And all this sounds like some strange, warped code, which it isn't, truly. It is just nostalgia for my twenties. I am forty-four and allowed nostalgia. It is not my fault if my twenties were spent reading lots of variants of the Prose Tristan and pulling time sequences to pieces in Old French chronicles and drooling over the gore in the Mez cycle of epic legends.
I was inspired by describing how parchment comes into being (more gore) into buying stuff to store modern paper and prevent gore happening (when I can't find things I need). This I did on the way home, conveniently forgetting how hard it is to lug giant boxes home while carrying groceries and teaching materials. I got nearly there and a passing stranger hoyed me and kindly drove me the rest of the way. I must have looked like an ant struggling with a giant breadcrumb. This is one appreciative ant. And now I must go and assemble my bits of plastic and fix some of my filing system. Who knows, by tomorrow maybe my table will be visible again.