Only a green velvet cord separated me from case after walnut case of exquisite volumes. Marble busts gazed self-contentedly at the fourteenth-century oak harp that symbolizes all Ireland. A barrel-vaulted roof crowned what some say is the most beautiful library in the world. Nearby a different page of the gloriously illuminated Book of Kells is exhibited every day.
That is what Google Image Search tells me I saw at the Long Room of Trinity College Dublin.
I do remember it. I do. But you know how the impression you take from a long-sought experience is rarely the impression you expect? There's generally a gift in that. We're patterned to expect a gift in that. Thomas C. Foster tells us that in a quest narrative, the real purpose for the journey is never what the quester initially seeks.* There's a reason why "expect the unexpected" is a cliche; Western culture tends to breed quest narrative junkies, and after awhile, everything starts to look like a journey.
I'm pretty sure I've already tripped your convention sensors. Now all I have to do now is fill in the blanks.
What I remember most about the library at Trinity College Dublin was not the oak or the marble. It wasn't really evenThe Book of Kells, though I can tell you that the going Medieval rate for blue ink was pretty steep. What I remember most was a hole.
There is a tiny hole in The Book of Kells. In fact, there are many, and there always have been. The book is vellum -- calfskin -- and very good vellum too. It is just that vellum can't help but be perforated in places, because vellum was once alive. I looked closer. I saw hair. Hair and the faint branches of bloodless vessels. Hundreds of calves died for that incarnation of the gospel story. These were violent and sacrificial deaths, in which flesh became word.
Well, of course I had to write a poem then. I later heard that Billy Collins, at the time my favorite poet, had the same idea. I haven't seen his version yet, but I'm sure it is better. That's okay. We all have to create meaning with the substance we have. We all have to play with that convention that the journey itself is the destination, and that the destination is never something we can expect or control. We all bear in our flesh stories that are not our own, and then we make them our own. We are full of holes. Holy.
Book of Kells
by Katherine Leigh Carlson
It's the colors they worry about:
Mustn't let you fade.
Just turn, turn
a daily mass
for gawking pilgrims.
the unpainted places of your skin:
faint branching of empty veins,
they could not scrape away,
the holes from blade
Did it hurt when your flesh became word?
Did they feed you a last supper;
one-hundred eighty-five voices lowing
over fragrant, final grain?
Perhaps you brushed noses over a fence.
Perhaps you only met