There is a universally acknowledged aphorism that if you want something doing, you should ask a busy person. I humbly propose that if you want a column writing, you should ask a busy postgraduate who would much rather spend the afternoon writing about herself than reading a dozen PDF chapters on genetic criticism and editorial theories (in fairness – and in case my convenor is reading – this is much more interesting than it sounds). The beauty of writing this column is that it is brilliant for when I hit an intellectual lull during a long library session. When this happens, I can simply switch word documents and start typing away freely, hoping to be watched and envied by my industrious peers.
Another tactic I sometimes employ to fill the intellectual void is that of stream-of-consciousness style list writing. My peers across the desk may think I’m researching the fin-de-siècle periodical press. Little do they know that I am in fact adding to my catalogues of cocktails I’d like to make, people I’d invite to my theoretical dinner party, or quotes that I found touching at the time (that it will never come again is what makes life so sweet!)
I am also compiling a bucket list of things I would like to achieve in my twenties. This includes the highbrow (write a novel), the not so highbrow (adopt a fairly scruffy but cute-enough-for-a-cuddle type dog and call it Norbert) and the decidedly un-highbrow (throw a Bridget Jones inspired ‘Tarts and Vicars’ party). You’ll know you’ve really put your foot in it when I bring out the ‘phrases that I hate to hear’ list, which includes things like ‘you’re quite tall, aren’t you?’, ‘I’ve bought you a tequila!’, and ‘can I bring my boyfriend?’
My latest list is called ‘things I could do whilst waiting for my toast to toast’. It’s a good occupation whilst I am, indeed, waiting for my toast to toast in a toaster (try and say that quickly) that is effective but likely predates the industrial revolution. I’m not complaining; university kitchens are notoriously simple but nevertheless functional. Mine is roughly the size of the Tardis sans expansion ability, which makes cooking anything involving more than one pan feel like an episode of Taskmaster. Fortunately for me, I only own one pan. My tactic is to keep some staple ingredients and get creative. The current rotation includes Marmite and cheese on toast, Marmite and cheese on a bagel (the eagle-eyed amongst you may start to notice a theme here), and Marmite and cheese on pasta.
The more time I spend on this planet, the more I realise that the more you know, the more you know how much you don’t know. This can partly be attributed to the Dunning Kruger effect, which is well worth researching because it is a good phrase to throw into philosophical debates. The premise is that limited knowledge makes a person unaware of the complexity of a subject. This feels especially true of my time at Oxford so far, which has had me intellectually humbled through questions like ‘how can we read Lord Jim postcritically?’ and ‘what is a page?’
At this point, you might be forgiven for thinking that I have totally forgotten the premise of this column. The truth is that I am just rather fond of preamble. To get to the point, if I had a ‘second draft’ for the last few weeks, I would go and find as many tangible books relating to my course as possible. The majority of the criticism I need to read is available online. This is both helpful and time efficient. It is not, however, good for the soul. There is something much more heartening about struggling through an analysis of postcritique if you are doing so from a palpable text with the occasional dog-eared page and various marginalia. The alternative is a glaring screen with a small bar along the side which serves to constantly remind you of how much more you need to read.
There was a series that aired on Channel 4 a few years ago called Child Genius. It was a competition where child prodigies (and their competitive parents) fought, under the watchful eye of Richard Osman, to gain the title of ‘child genius’ in various rounds of quite frankly ridiculously challenging questions. One of the contestants, who I believe actually went on to win the show, professed her love for smelling books. At the time, I confess, I thought she was decidedly strange, and I would like to use this space to atone for my ignorant judgement. I have since learned that there is much peace to be found in rummaging through library shelves, enjoying the serendipity of discovering a book you probably wouldn’t have found online and, of course, smelling that dusty but oh so comforting scent of old pages.
There is also something to be said for taking time away from a screen. It’s a harsh realisation when you consider that the small rectangle of light on which you read PDF chapters is often the same place you go to in order to unwind. There is also the fear of opening said screen midway through a seminar and a half-watched episode of Fleabag popping up. Or a recent Google search like ‘Lord Jim summary for clots’ or ‘how much Marmite is bad for me?’ I think what I’m trying to articulate is that when I have an intellectual lull and realise how much I don’t know, it is grounding and somewhat reassuring to metaphorically wake up and smell the book binding. Or maybe I’ll just start a new list entitled ‘books that smell better than Jo Malone’.