Library of Babel and Interstellar


The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite, perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries….From any hexagon one can see the floors below-one after the other, endlessly.(Borges, 1941, p.112)

In the movie Interstellar (2014), directed by Christopher Nolan, there is a scene present towards the ending that depicts the universe and all within it (at least in the 5th dimension), as a library. This too is an endless library with floors upon floors of books. The protagonist eventually finds his house amongst all the various shelves and somehow through space and time, sends a message to his younger self and daughter just in time.

I chose this specific example as I feel it was quite a coincidence that I have actually seen an “endless” library, even though it was in a movie.

The interstellar library, a tesseract in the 5th dimension. The interstellar library, a tesseract in the 5th dimension.

Works cited:

Borges, J., & Hurley…

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A Year of Sewing

I was surprised when I sat down to make a proper record of all the things I’d made in a year of sewing class (only 3 hours a week in term-time, minus some long champagne and coffee breaks) to see just how many wearable garments and useful things I’d made. (Let’s not talk about the Christmas cutlery-holders with appliqued reindeer.)

Note my very subdued grey-blue colour palette.

This year I’m going to challenge myself to make a lined coat, a proper button shirt and (gasp) a pair of jeans*. But – ahem – I’ve just read the following ‘Denim has a tendency to twist due to the nature of the twill grain…to get a perfectly on grain cut with no leg twist, it’s best to cut your leg pieces on a single layer of fabric, alternating your back and front pieces next to each other.’ Thoughts on this: a) It’s amazing what you learn doing practical crafts b) Just cutting out is going to take twice as long as I thought c) Leaving this project til…maybe…next April (zoiks!)

*inspired, as so often, by Karen Templer

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The birds in Turieno 

The fig tree has become a sparrow tree for a while. Alarms spurt up from all the bramble-tangle as I pass. 

My presence is an insult to the woodpecker, but gives the choughs something to talk about. 

Cowbell answers crowcroak. 

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Water of life

There’s been a long drought in these parts. The valley fields are shorn and parched. Scottish people (bringing rain in their pockets) to the rescue! 

Bright spots of green poplars show the mountain springs. A muddy puddle from last night’s rain is thronged with butterflies.  But look here:

The village orchards and vegetable plots are lush and green, watered by a network of rills fed by snowmelt.


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I love the way they sit

Norman MacCaig: three, yes, three poems about frogs and toads from his collection One of the Many Days

Just Because I love frogs too; because toadstones; because the toad under the door reminds me of Roger Deakin’s house*; because my husband is having a passing fad for the word sprawling and keeps using it in all the wrong places and -pop- here it is, legitimately, in a poem.


Frogs sit more solid/ than anything sits. In mid-leap they are/ parachutists falling / in a free fall. They die on roads/ with arms across their chests and/ heads high. 

I love frogs that sit / like Buddha, that fall without / parachutes, that die / like Italian tenors.

Above all, I love them because, / pursued in water, they never / panic so much that they fail / to make stylish triangles / with their ballet dancer’s / legs.


Stop looking like a purse. How could a purse squeeze under the rickety door and sit, full of satisfaction, in a man’s house?

You clamber towards me on your four corners – right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot. 

I love you for being a toad, for crawling like a Japanese wrestler, and for not being frightened. 

I put you in my purse hand, not shutting it, and set you down outside directly under every star.

A jewel in your head? Toad, you’ve put one in mine, a tiny radiance in a dark place. 

My last word on frogs 

People have said to me, You seem to like frogs. /They keep jumping into your poems. 

I do. I love the way they sit,/ compact as a cat and as indifferent/ to everything but style, like a lady remembering /to keep her knees together. And I love /the elegant way they jump and /the inelegant way they land. /So human. 

I feel so close to them/ I must be froggish myself./ I look in the mirror expecting to see /a fairytale Prince. /But no. It’s just sprawling me, /croaking away /and swivelling my eyes around/ for the stealthy heron and his stabbing beak.

*Roger Deakin’s ancient moated Suffolk farmhouse sounds like a dream, you can read all about it in Notes from Walnut Tree Farm and Wildwood and see Justin Partyka’s photos here. In chapter 15 of Waterlog he remarks on “the garden toads that often stray into the kitchen… When i pick them up to carry them back to the vegetable garden, where they are supposed to be on pest control duty, some go quietly without a murmur, but with others there is an unseemly struggle as they try to escape, and they perfume my hands with the slightly noxious imitation venom that is supposed to make you drop them in disgust.”

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Centro Botín 

270,000 ceramic buttons. 

Take me to your leader.

There isn’t any other stair quite like it. 

Sitting on the dock of the bay 

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First lines

“May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. The river shrinks and black crows gorge on bright mangoes in still, dustgreen trees. Red bananas ripen. Jackfruits burst.”
These are the first lines of The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. I was reading them aloud to my daughter on the beach yesterday (she was annoyed that I’d brought a book and she hadn’t). We got as far as Sophie Mol’s funeral. It was spellbinding. I’m sure that when I failed to finish the book twenty years ago, I must’ve been blind to this, but on reading aloud, all the details sparkled.

More first lines best read aloud:

“When shall we three meet again?    In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” 

“It had been like dying, that sliding down the mountain pass. It had been like the death of someone, irrational, that sliding down the mountain pass and into the region of dread.” 

“Rose Pickles knew something bad was going to happen. Something really bad, this time.” 

2     It was 7 minutes after midnight. The dog was lying on the grass in the middle of the lawn in front of Mrs Shears’ house. Its eyes were closed.” 

“I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.”

You can try and guess which books they’re from, if you like, or just savour them for themselves. I particularly enjoy the effect of unexpected frankness when reading aloud ; also of repetition, sometimes unnoticed on silent reading, which really asserts itself.

Now here are some first lines from favourites I could never imagine reading aloud. 

“By dawn at least half the members of the Kelly gang were badly wounded and it was then the creature appeared from behind police lines.”

“She stands up in the garden where she has been working and looks into the distance.” 

“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.” 

“In these times of ours, though concerning the exact year there is no need to be precise, a boat of dirty and disreputable appearance, with two figures in it, floated on the Thames, between Southwark Bridge, which is of iron, and London Bridge, which is of stone, as an autumn evening was closing in.”

Typing that last one of Dickens sets me wondering Why “which is of iron…which is of stone”? Is it a rowing rhythm? An old rhyme? Paid by the word? It’s suitably insinuating ; I don’t imagine anyone who’s ever read the first chapter of Our Mutual Friend can ever be by the Thames at night, Shard or no Shard, and not have the scene come to mind, Lizzie and her father in the “slime and ooze” “doing something that they often did…seeking what they often sought”. 

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