In college, I did not know it at the time but I had signed up for an English class taught by a man who later would become a very dear friend. He was the scholar that scholars would like to emulate. In the summers, he returned to his London flat in his homeland where 600 year old libraries were as common as black ravens in London Tower and publishing houses of scholarly works and noted authors had been on the same street for centuries. He loved good brandy. He was constantly writing forwards for his publisher's clients as well as for his own publications, new or a re-edit of a previous publication. He dressed in fine tweeds and to some in our gourp, his very large collection of American Jazz was a bonanza when he held discussion groups and potlucks. The man loved American Jazz.
At Christmas, he would send me copies of works of art that his family held in their English estate that were beautifully handcrafted lithos the size of over- sized note cards. Since life isn't perfect, my collection of those were lost to a divorce that didn't have to be as bitter as it was, but turned out that way. Over the years, I have thought of him. Several years ago, he did pass. Yet, like the lines of Shelley, his memory holds as much guilded gold as the Taj Mahal.
Two weeks ago, I ran across an index of authors that were listed as scholars in certain fields. In the English literature category were page after page of published works on his life's work--the works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. And when I had finished the list, what I had heard Neville recite time and time again unbiddenly came to mind:
Death is the veil which those who live call life.
They sleep,and it is lifted.
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| Yarn Art in an outdoor setting. |
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