The Prelude

“I could not print Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps Of generations of illustrious men, Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept, Wake where they had waked, range that inclosure old, That garden of great intellects, undisturbed.”

-          The Prelude, William Wordsworth

I began The Prelude for the first time, last night, after it was given to me by Dr. Kerry—the rather warm and somewhat intimidating BYU professor, advisor, and friend, who is with us here at Cambridge. A small, blue book, embossed with gold foil lettering and the image of a boy with a flute, bookmarked at the section entitled “Residence at Cambridge,” The Prelude is Wordsworth’s history of his own growth as a poet. (All in verse, of course, because nobody would ever dream of writing something of such depth in prose.)

As I turned the crisp yellow pages, and reflected on the simple similarities between this favorite poet’s experience at Cambridge, and my own short stay, I was struck by how strange it is that I am walking the streets that Chaucer, Spencer, Milton, Wordsworth, Newton, Darwin, and a hundred other brilliant minds have walked. These walls are seeped in hundreds of years of history, thought, discovery—and absolutely buckets of chilly English rain.

This has been the nearest thing to paradise, for me. The food, the sights, the change of pace… this has all been rather lovely, of course. But to be able to sit on a bench for five or six hours at a time, in the middle of the day, writing, uninterrupted, surrounded by green grass and the smell of roses and the walls of Pembroke College—this is heaven for me.

I found the most fantastic little bench, at the far north-east corner of Pembroke, behind the café, hidden away from the main path and overhung with leaves and backed by hedges. I had been there for nearly an hour, when a man three times my size plopped down on the opposite end and began to smoke. I admit I was bewildered. There were plenty of empty benches in the vicinity, and I had no idea why this large, smoking man had chosen mine so particularly when he had such a wide variety of options. After twenty minutes, he threw his cigarette to one side, and walked off.

It was only after a friend and current student of Pemroke College approached and said, rather amusedly, “I don’t often see people with laptops on this particular bench,” that the puzzle of the smoking man was solved. As it happens, the exact spot where I was sitting constitutes the only corner of the college in which smoking is allowed! (Which also explained the multitude of cigarette butts to the left of the bench—I admit, my observational skills could use some serious sharpening, if I am going to be even marginally successful as a writer in this life.)

I want—so much—to write. As Bryan, one of my creative writing professors puts it, “Writing is more of an affliction, really. It’s like having eczema. It’s a kind of disease.” You can’t stop. And what’s more, you don’t want to.

I wonder, Wordsworth, how did your affliction change and grow and find itself scrawled upon a page? As I sit on my bed, with three notebooks, a laptop, and The Prelude strewn across the sheets, I can’t wait to find out. And I have a twinge of hope that perhaps I will follow you—perhaps I am living a prelude of my own, already, on these streets, which might someday be worth writing down.