Audio version:
I’m in the University of Liverpool Library, the Sydney Jones “Arts & Humanities” one, sitting on “the bridge” between two earlier buildings where I would often sit the last time I was a student here. It was the year and a bit before the pandemic arrived and my main memory from then is of happiness. Headphones on, classical music playing and me, happily writing. There was always more writing to do and this place I’d arrived at helped me do it. In my middle sixties then, starting a new lease of life and happily surprised to be here at all. Later on I’d come to consider the whole time and its purpose a horrendous mistake. But we’ll get to that.
Today I’d set out to walk to a different library, to Central in town, where I wanted to pick up a copy of “The Mill on the Floss,” and resume the reading of George Eliot’s novels I’d taken a break from a few weeks ago. But since my walk was passing the University anyway I’ve come in here “just to see” as I’m calling it. To see what George Eliot they’ve got, certainly. But more significantly to see how I’d feel about being in here at all. Because I haven’t. I haven’t come in here, not once in the two and more years since I decided University was a mistake, and left.
But now, half an hour since I arrived I haven’t even looked for the George Eliot yet, or checked whether my ex-student library ticket would let me borrow it. All I’ve done is come up to the first floor, to my old seat on the bridge, and sit here. Listening to a playlist I put together the last time I was a student, to see how I’m feeling. Which, after the playlist’s brooding start of Aaron Copland’s “Quiet City” and a couple of mildly bouncing Boccherini pieces, is pretty good. Good and glad enough to be back now to go and look for the George Eliot books.
But before I do that, and now the music’s moved on to Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto let me explain how I got here.
Well the back story as people call such as this is that I’ve been at this University twice before. The first time for a Sociology degree when I was still a boy, and so long ago most of the buildings won’t remember me. Then the second time is these recent years I’m writing about. Arriving here after several decades of self-employment and community activism I’d been looking for a change of scene and direction. And an opportunity to apply to the University for a PhD about Port Sunlight was the welcome and to be honest flattering change that was offered. I applied, was interviewed, talked mostly about my work with Sarah as A Sense of Place and also as part of the Granby 4 Streets Community Land Trust, so practical stuff rather than anything very academic. And I got in.
For what would start with an introductory MA year, then go on to the PhD, to make up for the very long time since my first degree I suppose. And involved, early on and by the grace and favour of the Village Trust there, several months where I went and lived in Port Sunlight while I wrote a science fiction story for my MA Dissertation. Which contained time travelling, imaginary interviews with several long dead people1, including a walk-on part featuring singing and cynicism from David Bowie, and got me an end of year “Best of” graduation award from the University. The zenith of my entire return it would turn out. After I brought the whole thing to an end part way through the attempted PhD about Utopia that followed. When further adventurous writing of the Port Sunlight type turned out to be entirely unwelcome a second time around.
But it was actually a good adventure I’ve come to realise recently, after years of feeling it was all a mistake. An adventure well worth the doing and almost entirely the welcome change I’d come for. Good people were met, old work and in fact all paid and voluntary work were eventually left behind in the years it took. And, added bonus, I walked away with the life-long library card I’m treating, today, as my invitation to come back for what I’m imagining as a very different time to the previous two. One where I’ll be able to do, write and read whatever I like, with no expectations on me to do anything other than inhabit its Libraries and read as much of them as I want. There’ll be no critical or any other theories to wrestle with and no PhD supervisors (sorry about last time, PhD supervisors) waiting frustratedly for the academic writing I wouldn’t and, to be quite honest, couldn’t do last time around. Instead I’ll have the glorious freedom to sit right where I am, write stuff like this and read whatever I want for as long as I live. Sounds good doesn’t it? Sort of Utopian!
I’ll say some more about all that either later today or someday soon. But right now I’m ready to go and look for the George Eliot.
Sunday 3rd November
As it turned out I was upstairs in Literature for a couple of hours, all spent in the George Eliot section. And what I found there, never having been much in the Literature part of the Library before, was a whole tall section’s worth of everything by and about her. Novels, commentaries, her notes, journalism, poetry and other writings. Just along from an even bigger Charles Dickens section. And also (I didn’t look on Friday but I have today) there are collections of Elizabeth Gaskell, Vita Sackville-West, Virginia Woolf, Margarets Drabble and Atwood, Elizabeth Bowen, Arthur C. Clarke, the Brontés, Rachel Cusk and, well, I could go on. Today I’ve also looked round all the other shelves and subject areas I can read from as well. Politics, poetry, philosophy, society, history, music, culture, art, design and more. Thousands of books in a treasure house I can once again walk into at will. As I have today. Feeling more excited about the huge stock of books than I ever gave myself the time to be when I got here back in 2018. When all too soon I had to focus down on only the things I’d come to study. Not so this time.
Another thing I’ve realised today is how glad I am about here as a place. A place for me to come and write in. Even in starting to write this story down I can see the library offers me something I’ve missed in my recent years of writing mainly at home or on the allotment. They’re both still perfect for quiet times, but often I want to walk as well as write in the normal going about of my days. And in my intervening years nowhere else has ever quite replaced here for that2. Not the City Council libraries somehow, with their more limited opening hours and never on Sundays. And definitely not doing that camping out for hours thing in coffee shops either. That was never for me.
But here I feel like I’m in one of my proper places again. For this beginning of a third go of being at this University. A time when I’m thinking of calling myself an emeritus student. Fully aware that “Emeritus” is an honorary title granted to retired professors to assure them they’re still as welcome and free to wander around as they ever were, but with no career left to compete about, no research papers expected, or internal politics to be bothered by. Most of which can apply to me too, I’ve decided. Apart from the honorary bit, which I’m awarding to myself.
“The Emeritus Student: Free to wander around.”
Oh and I did successfully borrow “The Mill on the Floss” by the way. As well as all the other George Eliot novels I haven’t read yet. Of course I did.
Tuesday 12th November
So all well and good, but the fact is that from well before I finally left until as recently as a few weeks ago, I’d got used to telling myself that coming back then staying for such a long second go at University had been a dreadful mistake, a complete waste of time and, no two ways about it, an utter failure.
But then recently, time having happened and feelings softened, I realised I was changing my mind about the mistakes. “Reframing the narrative” as it’s called (see I did notice some academic stuff in passing) into a new and better story. One where I first started carrying the formerly forgotten library card around, “just in case,” then one day walked in here already remembering, well let’s see? The writing place on the bridge, that classical music playlist I’d made there, then living in Port Sunlight the whole summer of 2019 writing my MA Dissertation, especially treasuring the bit in the story where the group of academic characters walk along the main avenue with David Bowie singing:
“Will you stay in our lovers’ story
If you stay you won’t be sorry
’Cos we believe in you...”
Then the next two years there were all those pandemic days, with the University shut down and so I was writing and even broadcasting podcasts from the polytunnel that had become our campus with my great friend Abi. Then there’s been the day when all the department’s on-strike lecturers came to Granby Winter Garden with us. That was good. And yes there were also difficult days, and plenty of them. But they don’t seem to matter much now, now time has happened. The whole thing was an adventure after all and all adventures take unexpected and occasionally difficult turns.
But this coming back and reframing of it all has unravelled the last of the regrets I was carrying around, partly by remembering that I never did arrive here principally for any academic qualifications, much though you decide to want such things once you’ve started on them, don’t you? But I’d never before in my life wanted an MA, though I managed to get one. And as for the PhD, my main feeling the day I walked away was of immense relief from the stopping of it, and getting the rest of my time back for me. Because I really had come here for a complete change from the work I’d been doing before, and that’s mainly what I ended up getting. For which I’m grateful. As well as for this lifelong right to come back, read and write in here, anytime I feel like. Like an Emeritus Student.
Thursday 14th November, a reflective finish?
Well the main reflection is clearly that the coming back to University for a second time wasn’t a mistake at all. But an episode where, having been invited though an interesting looking door, I walked through to see what was on the other side of it. And despite the undoubted difficulties I found there, clearly liked the experience and the place well enough to have walked back through the door again this week, for a third but very different time at this same University.
As for whether there’s some generally applicable wisdom to be drawn from all this, or whether I even want to be the kind of writer who offers out advice like that to his readers, well no. But this, as set down is the version of my University story I now prefer. The one with less angst and none of the anger it once contained. All told from my long favoured writing place, up on the bridge of this immense library. Where I’m looking forward to the writing of more stories on other days, now I’ve let myself come back.
The edition of the “Port Sunlight News” pictured in the collage isn’t real by the way, in case any Village residents wonder how come they never received it. I made it up as part of my time travel story.
It’s about the books as well. Writing while surrounded by thousands of them reminds me of my other two favourite libraries, StoryHouse in Chester and Gladsone’s Library in North Wales. Both wonderful, but I can walk to this one.
Good to read about the changing experience of the ‘mistake’ Ronnie. Something George Eliot knows a lot about. Glad you are happy in there!
Thank you Ronnie for another wonderful post. So richly described it makes me want to revisit my former university library, but that’s five hours away! I too regret the fact that my results didn’t reflect the brain that was inside me, that I was always too distracted by coffee breaks chatting to friends. Yet the memory of sitting in the library surrounded by my reading list, just me, my pen and paper to make sense of it all in the quietness and the concrete tower of knowledge. It’s not the results, but the process itself I enjoyed. Yes I wish I’d focused more but I did the best I could with the tools and knowledge I had then. If I were to do it all again it would be different, but then again so would I. I’m pretty happy with myself in truth…with all my flaws, so no time travelling for me.