The past month’s been such a whirlwind journey, from my trip to London and Cambridge, to a visit from my friend from Ireland, that it is now most difficult for me to compartmentalise and gather all my incoherent thoughts to write about my experiences, as much as I’d love to. Hence, rather than penning something new, I’ve extracted bits and pieces from my journal to put up instead.
Arrived in London this morning and was utterly lethargic since I could hardly sleep a wink on the plane – not sure if being on a flight or my excitement was cause for such sleeplessness. […] The apartment we rented was atop five flights of stairs. Groans and whines as my mom and I trudge up and down the uneven steps at least twice a day.
[…] We strolled up to the National Portrait Gallery since it was mere minutes away from our little apartment (I suppose there’s an advantage to climbing up and down five flights of stairs twice daily) and was completely awed by the collection there. It so happened that there was a temporary exhibit on the Brontë sisters so I got to see several of Charlotte Brontë’s manuscripts and a first edition copy of Jane Eyre on display. How marvellous was that? I did get slightly emotional at the exhibit, slightly overwhelmed by this inexplicable feeling – a stirring of the consciousness that what we know to be dead, a static object to be studied, was once so alive. To imagine that Charlotte Brontë was once living flesh that had touched such objects, that her spirit continues to live in such objects – in her writing – is simply unthinkable. It reminds me of a quote from ‘The Goldfinch’ that I can’t now remember off the top of my head. Will search it up later. (“It exists; and it keeps on existing.”) […] Bust of Woolf: so solemn but it looks as if she’s been startled – those wide eyes! Was she easily frightened? […] Continue reading