'Inspiration' (Part II): Psychobabbleon (And On, And On...)

As Trivandrum pointed out, the bowels of that ancient city and one-time Babylon of the West have vomited forth a great edict concerning what they used to do and now swear never to do again... indulging in bureaucratese. The reason that this particular piece was so inspirational to so many is that this great city was once the headquarters of the largest corporate dominion ever created by humans.

Oh, do not blame the Americans; they are but a young and benighted nation compared to that great Lion of the Sea!

Unfortunately, I have yet to think of a version for the education sector that won't be immediately recognizable as proceeding from the mouth of... urgh. Let us not think about it, but pray. I shall leave this as a stub for now.

Small Places

I remember a long time ago when I was about six and I read the immortal textbook line, "Atoms are mostly empty space." The idea of space being empty had never crossed my mind, somehow. In real life, what we call 'empty space' in our living environment tends to contain stuff like dust, air, light, and the presence of life. Even if it were physically empty, it would be full of psychological depth, or fear, or night, or darkness, or something.

It's only much later in life that you find out about the small places.

The small places are those things that live in empty space, thus making it apparently not empty. But they don't exist except as psychological or mystical constructs, and it's hard to prove they ever were. Some small places are actually huge realms, but extremely compressible without loss (since the information content is tenuous at best, there can't be any loss). Such are the myriad Golden Ages of humanity, the secret alleys of the old cities, the mythical stations of the world's underground transit systems, the bookshops that you see only once and never again.

I encountered all four of these one windy winter morning in north London. It was during the time that I met my godchildren, who were still small and young and tender and very creative people. (Now, they're bigger and older and tougher but even more creative.) I decided to go for a walk down the road to Highbury, the heart of that wonderful 1886 football club, Arsenal.

On the way there, I found a large old bookshop, full of ancient F&SF books of all kinds. It was opposite the Highbury underground station, and I walked in and was very happy to purchase a couple of books. I promised myself I'd come back for a longer visit on the way back.

I walked back later. I never passed the bookshop again, even though it was along the main road and large and visible. Heh.

London Bookshops

I still have dim memories of odd moments in and around London, things to do with books and bookshops. I remember walking down to the Forbidden Planet from somewhere north of Highbury (a long walk!) and finding a little F&SF second-hand bookshop with a red façade. On the way back, I never saw it again.

I also remember taking a wrong turn and finding myself face to face with a brass plate which said, "Dylan Thomas lived here." It was a powerful moment for me; the last bard of Wales was a towering influence on my early attempts at poetry.

Over the last few years, I have been a frequent browser at the Folio Society, with offices still at 44 Eagle Street. But only recently have I become a curious visitor at the London Review of Books. I have long been a subscriber with both. In fact, I am now looking longingly at the Folio edition of Newton's Principia Mathematica, with guide, and am only a little deterred by the discount price of GBP 75.00 — and the fact that the postage will be hefty too.

Some day, I will dig up my London diaries and do a more detailed travelogue. Perhaps I will have a Neil Gaiman or Christopher Fowler or China Miéville moment and write about the secret London that I discovered, the dark mirror-image of the living power. But I know I still have time; the ravens still haunt the Tower of London, and I may yet return to the Isles of the Blessed.