The Return of the Emeritus Student

Where something long considered a terrible mistake turns out to have been no such thing.

Friday 1st November, on All Saints’ Day

Listen to this here:

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.

Sunset over Abercromby Square, from “the bridge” in the Library

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 student¹, 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.

“Several months where I went and lived in Port Sunlight”

Well the back story as people call such as this is that I’ve been at this University before, twice. The first time for a Sociology degree, was when I was still a boy and so long ago most of the buildings, including this one, won’t remember me. Then the second time is these years I’m writing about. Arriving here exhausted in the aftermath of several decades of self-employment in and around social enterprise, and where one of my efforts had recently failed, I was wanting a change of scene and direction from all that. 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 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 and research², a walk-on part from David Bowie and got me an end of year graduation award from the University. The zenith of my entire return, as it turned out. Which I would bring to a relief of an end myself part way through the attempted Utopian PhD that followed. When further adventurous writing of the Port Sunlight type turned out to be not so welcomed a second time around.

But it was a good adventure I’ve come to realise recently, after years of thinking 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 work was eventually left behind in the years it took. And, added bonus, I walked away with the life-long library card I’m treating as my invitation to come back now 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 from anyone I’ll do anything other than inhabit its Libraries (this isn’t its only one) and read as much of them as I want. Having 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’d have the glorious freedom this time to sit right where I am, writing the likes of this and reading whatever I wanted for as long as I live. That’d be good wouldn’t it?

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.

“As well as all the other George Eliot novels I haven’t read yet”

“The bridge” between two earlier buildings

Sunday 3rd November

As it turned out, the other day 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 book-case’s worth of everything by and about her. Novels, commentaries, her notes, journalism, poetry and other writings. Just along, I noticed, 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 could be reading 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 had the time to be when I arrived here back in late 2018. Sure, I made up that playlist in my initial enthusiasm, but all too soon 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 for me to come and write. 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’d also want to walk and then spend some time writing in the normal going about of my days. It fits in with having most of my ideas when I’m walking around. And in my intervening years nowhere else has ever quite replaced here for that³. Not the City Council libraries somehow, with their more limited opening hours and never on Sundays. And definitely not camping out for hours in coffee shops either. Just never for me.

But here I feel like I’m in one of my places again. For what, without entry requirements or an interview, feels like the beginning of a third go of being at this University. A third time when maybe I could think of myself as a sort of 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 could apply to me too. 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.

“Thousands of books in a treasure house I can once again walk into at will”

Tuesday 12th November

So all well and good, but what about those “mistakes” mentioned in the subtitle of all this. Well 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 here 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 that whole summer of 2019 writing my MA Dissertation, especially the bit in the story where the group of us walk along the main avenue there, 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 there were all those pandemic days, with the University shut down and so writing and even broadcasting podcasts from the polytunnel that had become our campus, with my great friend Abi. Then the day when all of those on-strike lecturers came to Granby Winter Garden with us. That was good. And yes there were also the difficult days, and plenty of them. Though they don’t seem to matter so much now, now time has happened. It was an adventure after all and all adventures take unexpected and occasionally difficult turns.

But this coming back and reframing it all has unravelled the last of the regrets I was carrying around about mistakes and difficulties. Partly because of time but also through remembering how I never did arrive here principally for the academic qualifications, much though you come 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 its time back, for me. Because I really had come here for the change and the adventure stuff I wrote about last week, and that’s mainly what I ended up getting. For which I’m grateful. As well as for this lifelong right to come back in, and read and write in here, anytime I feel like.

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 it to see what was on the other side. 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, for this third but different time at the 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 I’m not at all sure. But this, as set down here is the version of my University story I now prefer. The one with less angst, added time and none of the anger it used to contain. All of it told from this long favoured writing place, up on the bridge of such a Treasure House, this immense library. Where I’m looking forward to the writing of more stories on other days, now I’ve let myself come back.

“now I’ve let myself come back”

An End Piece

“Write less than you did that last time” had been my aim with this one. An aim I’ve clearly and utterly failed at. So the planned end pieces about my heart and the allotment (both in reasonable shape, the garden more so) will have to wait. But I couldn’t end this one’s story without its several times mentioned soundtrack. So here, on Spotify and accessible to all, is the Quiet City Playlist:

Until next time,
Ronnie

1. There’s a link to a short version of the playlist above this footnote, which contains all the music mentioned here. A much longer version can be heard through my Apple Music account at ronniewriting.

2. 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.

3. 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.