An anatomy of melancholy1.
Ghost libraries; fragments of texts and references.
Two visions haunt me. The first is of the interior of a vast circular library, with balconies that run the entire length of the walls, each with shelves of books reaching to the base of the next balcony. When you stand in the centre of this place you are surrounded by books, and by the knowledge the books contain.2
As the vision clarifies I realise that the lower balconies are only accessible by open spiral staircases, and that the higher floors cannot be reached. This fills me with a mix of terror and sorrow, for I cannot articulate the feeling of loss combined with a fear of the unknown, unreachable, knowledge that may destroy my prevailing view of the world.
The second vision is of an abandoned library, with empty bookcases that demonstrate the irredeemable absence of books. This is something more than loss, for that would mean there was some understanding of what had gone, this is a profound absence, as if knowledge had never existed. The end of all cognition.
It was at the close of the last century that I first encountered the metaphor of knowledge being likened to an endless series of rooms, so that no sooner had you begun the exploration of all that one room contained when you became aware of the open doors that led to further rooms to be explored.3 The implication was that it was impossible to know everything, for there would always be more, something perhaps unknown and unexpected. It is the architectural quality of this metaphor that draws me to it I am certain, that and the image of knowledge as something contained in fitfully lit rooms accessed only via seldom used corridors.
Museums and libraries fit this metaphor to perfection, with their rooms drawing you to follow a specific path, a teleology of epistemology. Ease of access to information for the visitor is paramount to the existence of these institutions.4 Yet when you are employed in such an institution you soon discover that this primary path through the cabinets of objects or the shelves of books is but one of many routes that could be taken, and that there are side rooms and dimly-lit corridors that lead you to places seldom visited. Even this is to discover only what is available to the general public, for there are also rooms that are barred except to researchers who wish to explore further their particular area of knowledge5. These closed rooms, with only a fading sign on the door or affixed to the wall to indicate what treasures may lie within, exert a fascination for a dreamer such as I, someone for whom the idea of the library as a site of possible wonders draws me to these institutions in the first place.
Ghost libraries; fragments of texts and references.
Two visions haunt me. The first is of the interior of a vast circular library, with balconies that run the entire length of the walls, each with shelves of books reaching to the base of the next balcony. When you stand in the centre of this place you are surrounded by books, and by the knowledge the books contain.2
As the vision clarifies I realise that the lower balconies are only accessible by open spiral staircases, and that the higher floors cannot be reached. This fills me with a mix of terror and sorrow, for I cannot articulate the feeling of loss combined with a fear of the unknown, unreachable, knowledge that may destroy my prevailing view of the world.
The second vision is of an abandoned library, with empty bookcases that demonstrate the irredeemable absence of books. This is something more than loss, for that would mean there was some understanding of what had gone, this is a profound absence, as if knowledge had never existed. The end of all cognition.
It was at the close of the last century that I first encountered the metaphor of knowledge being likened to an endless series of rooms, so that no sooner had you begun the exploration of all that one room contained when you became aware of the open doors that led to further rooms to be explored.3 The implication was that it was impossible to know everything, for there would always be more, something perhaps unknown and unexpected. It is the architectural quality of this metaphor that draws me to it I am certain, that and the image of knowledge as something contained in fitfully lit rooms accessed only via seldom used corridors.
Museums and libraries fit this metaphor to perfection, with their rooms drawing you to follow a specific path, a teleology of epistemology. Ease of access to information for the visitor is paramount to the existence of these institutions.4 Yet when you are employed in such an institution you soon discover that this primary path through the cabinets of objects or the shelves of books is but one of many routes that could be taken, and that there are side rooms and dimly-lit corridors that lead you to places seldom visited. Even this is to discover only what is available to the general public, for there are also rooms that are barred except to researchers who wish to explore further their particular area of knowledge5. These closed rooms, with only a fading sign on the door or affixed to the wall to indicate what treasures may lie within, exert a fascination for a dreamer such as I, someone for whom the idea of the library as a site of possible wonders draws me to these institutions in the first place.
It did not take long to grasp the general layout of the public areas of the building, the
manner in which the architecture was designed to lead a visitor to follow a specified route
to promote the official narrative. However, as anyone who has attempted to produce a
linear description of the cultural manifestations of a civilisation can attest, such singular
routes are misleading. It was possible to discover rooms that seemed to lead away from the
main corridors, these rooms containing objects now regarded as merely the traces of ideas
that no longer added to the present understanding of the development of culture.6 These
seldom-visited rooms were my especial joy, for on the dusty shelves could be discovered
volumes of uncertain provenance, and these allowed me to weave my own stories rather
than be constrained by an adherence to official histories.
Museums and libraries often contain much more than the things that are displayed or available for public purview. In the building in which I worked at the time of this narrative the offices, storage rooms, archives, and private collections that lay behind the public areas were a complex warren where it was possible to become completely lost. Those that worked in this area knew only of their immediate surroundings, finding it no doubt unnecessary to explore the archives and libraries of the curators of the lesser-known disciplines. Even those who ventured between departments kept to well-defined routes, and curators would limit their explorations to the archives and libraries containing the volumes dealing mostly with the modern period.
I am sure you think it unlikely that a modern building would contain such mysterious areas as those alluded to above, yet you should also recall that the new building you encounter today was constructed on the foundations of much older structures, and that the basement of the present building connects to the corridors and abandoned rooms of these previous institutions, and that some of these remnants of the previous architecture are still used for the archiving of seldom-needed books and artefacts.7
It was indeed while pursuing my own research into the history of the institutions that once stood on this site, and whose corridors are said to form part of the deeper sub-basements of the present building, that I first ventured into these moribund storage areas. I was searching for the diary of a Professor N., a professor of Archaeology at the University of T., who had submitted a number of papers to an obscure publication dealing with bibliomania at the beginning of the last century. Many of these articles dealt with the libraries of eighteenth century Dutch explorers, and they demonstrated an almost obsessive focus on the fate of one particular collection of books of natural philosophy, now thought lost. My interest in the Professor’s diary, and indeed in his interest in the whereabouts of the books collected by one Hieronymous Schlaken, had been kindled by the chance discovery of an ink
Museums and libraries often contain much more than the things that are displayed or available for public purview. In the building in which I worked at the time of this narrative the offices, storage rooms, archives, and private collections that lay behind the public areas were a complex warren where it was possible to become completely lost. Those that worked in this area knew only of their immediate surroundings, finding it no doubt unnecessary to explore the archives and libraries of the curators of the lesser-known disciplines. Even those who ventured between departments kept to well-defined routes, and curators would limit their explorations to the archives and libraries containing the volumes dealing mostly with the modern period.
I am sure you think it unlikely that a modern building would contain such mysterious areas as those alluded to above, yet you should also recall that the new building you encounter today was constructed on the foundations of much older structures, and that the basement of the present building connects to the corridors and abandoned rooms of these previous institutions, and that some of these remnants of the previous architecture are still used for the archiving of seldom-needed books and artefacts.7
It was indeed while pursuing my own research into the history of the institutions that once stood on this site, and whose corridors are said to form part of the deeper sub-basements of the present building, that I first ventured into these moribund storage areas. I was searching for the diary of a Professor N., a professor of Archaeology at the University of T., who had submitted a number of papers to an obscure publication dealing with bibliomania at the beginning of the last century. Many of these articles dealt with the libraries of eighteenth century Dutch explorers, and they demonstrated an almost obsessive focus on the fate of one particular collection of books of natural philosophy, now thought lost. My interest in the Professor’s diary, and indeed in his interest in the whereabouts of the books collected by one Hieronymous Schlaken, had been kindled by the chance discovery of an ink
and wash drawing of the local natural harbour, signed H. Schlaken. This was secreted
between the pages of one of the volumes on geological formations that had been donated
to the Museum Library upon the disappearance of the Professor.8 The drawing by Schlaken
led me to assume that he must have been employed as a draughtsman on one of the
voyages of exploration undertaken by Europeans in the pursuit of the projection of power,
something the British had taken to perfection before their Empire, like all Empires must, had
collapsed. I assumed that Schlaken had been, like William Hodges before him, both
draughtsman and spy, engaged in describing local flora and fauna whilst surveying the land
for possible naval bases.9
Upon his return to Europe Schlaken, now enriched as the result of the sale of curiosities he had amassed during the voyage, a collection that included a rather fine specimen of Haploteuthis ferox, began to purchase books from dealers throughout Europe.10 There exists in the Library of L. the correspondence between Schlaken and a bookseller in that city, which shows that Schlaken was chiefly interested in alchemy and the associated realms of knowledge where science interweaves with speculative philosophy11. Such a collection was not unusual for that period, although the manner with which it was pursued was remarked upon. The letters show Schlaken to be a difficult man. He was a recluse who used his status as an artist, for the paintings based on the drawings he made during his voyages were popular, despite being fantastical, as the excuse for his strange behaviour. He was seldom seen except at night, and all who chanced to encounter his heavily-cloaked figure in the dark streets of the city remarked on the sense of dread they felt. This emanated not so much from Schlaken himself, but from the feeling that there was someone following him, a barely-glimpsed shadow of great darkness that haunted the edges of the vision. Schlaken had the appearance of one being pursued12.
Schlaken’s body was never discovered, despite extensive searches of his now abandoned house. The library had been emptied of books, though there were scraps of burnt paper and ashes on all the shelves. Those who entered reported a palpable sense of unpleasantness, and the unshakeable feeling of being watched. Some of the more sensitive were sure they could hear voices, one speaking fearfully in Dutch, and the other in some strange language that seemed much older.13
This narrative I discovered from the extensive notes in Professor N.’s diary. I had almost given up the search for this volume, for all entries concerning its location had been erased from the pages of the library catalogues, and done so with a violence that had resulted in the pages being torn and disfigured14. This was not normal practice even in this institution. However, I found a small, badly-burnt, box on the shelves of the room reserved for uncatalogued items, and some whim made me take this to my office to examine it in detail. I was attempting to clean the ashes from the base with a small knife when a secret drawer opened, and within I discovered the diary and two documents15.
Upon his return to Europe Schlaken, now enriched as the result of the sale of curiosities he had amassed during the voyage, a collection that included a rather fine specimen of Haploteuthis ferox, began to purchase books from dealers throughout Europe.10 There exists in the Library of L. the correspondence between Schlaken and a bookseller in that city, which shows that Schlaken was chiefly interested in alchemy and the associated realms of knowledge where science interweaves with speculative philosophy11. Such a collection was not unusual for that period, although the manner with which it was pursued was remarked upon. The letters show Schlaken to be a difficult man. He was a recluse who used his status as an artist, for the paintings based on the drawings he made during his voyages were popular, despite being fantastical, as the excuse for his strange behaviour. He was seldom seen except at night, and all who chanced to encounter his heavily-cloaked figure in the dark streets of the city remarked on the sense of dread they felt. This emanated not so much from Schlaken himself, but from the feeling that there was someone following him, a barely-glimpsed shadow of great darkness that haunted the edges of the vision. Schlaken had the appearance of one being pursued12.
Schlaken’s body was never discovered, despite extensive searches of his now abandoned house. The library had been emptied of books, though there were scraps of burnt paper and ashes on all the shelves. Those who entered reported a palpable sense of unpleasantness, and the unshakeable feeling of being watched. Some of the more sensitive were sure they could hear voices, one speaking fearfully in Dutch, and the other in some strange language that seemed much older.13
This narrative I discovered from the extensive notes in Professor N.’s diary. I had almost given up the search for this volume, for all entries concerning its location had been erased from the pages of the library catalogues, and done so with a violence that had resulted in the pages being torn and disfigured14. This was not normal practice even in this institution. However, I found a small, badly-burnt, box on the shelves of the room reserved for uncatalogued items, and some whim made me take this to my office to examine it in detail. I was attempting to clean the ashes from the base with a small knife when a secret drawer opened, and within I discovered the diary and two documents15.
The documents were puzzling, for they were both architectural plans of some sort. After
careful examination I realised that one was a copy of the original designs for Schlaken’s
library. The second was an old plan of the deeper levels of the present Museum, with a
room marked as the location for the rebuilding of Schlaken’s Library. This second plan was
also covered in small drawings that seemed similar to diagrams I had once seen in a copy of
the Seal of Solomon16. These were produced by the application of thin lines of charcoal,
but, as soon as I tried to look at them closely they were dissipated by a sudden motion of
the air. There are no windows in my office, and I was at a loss to explain this occurrence.
I am not versed in the language of architectural plans, so it took some time to understand how a plan for a library related to the present structure, and to locate the whereabouts of the entrance, if indeed such a library had ever been constructed. Given the labyrinthine nature of the building, and the manner in which Professor N. had been, according to contemporary accounts of his time at the University of T., able to convince his colleagues of the necessity for numerous experiments of a highly questionable nature, it seemed likely that getting a small library constructed in the sub-basement of the Museum was entirely within his powers.
I determined to explore the corridors in the general direction indicated by the plans, and with this in mind I informed the keeper of the keys that I would be working late, and that he should leave me with the means to lock the outer doors when I left.
Although I was used to being in the Museum, the experience of the closed and silent institution was unsettling17. I took my flashlight, and began to walk in the direction mapped out by the plan. At first the corridors were familiar, lined with shelves and cupboards containing specimens and illustrated volumes of artefacts, but eventually the spaces became narrow, with alcoves containing objects that produces strange shadows when my light chanced to illuminate their contours. As I progressed I became aware of an odd sensation, the feeling that someone was following me, and I was sure I felt a breath of air on the back of neck, as if someone very close had exhaled behind me. But when I turned there was no one there.
Eventually the corridors began to slope downwards, and the construction of the walls changed from old concrete to blocks of stone, which, though old, had been carefully wrought to produce a seamless surface. The shelves that now lined the walls were dusty, bending under the weight of boxes that had not been opened for many years. Rounding a corner I came across a shelf that had collapsed, strewing boxes and contents across the stone floor. In the light cast by my torch I could discern scraps of cloth and small bones amongst the dust, but nothing recognisable18.
I am not versed in the language of architectural plans, so it took some time to understand how a plan for a library related to the present structure, and to locate the whereabouts of the entrance, if indeed such a library had ever been constructed. Given the labyrinthine nature of the building, and the manner in which Professor N. had been, according to contemporary accounts of his time at the University of T., able to convince his colleagues of the necessity for numerous experiments of a highly questionable nature, it seemed likely that getting a small library constructed in the sub-basement of the Museum was entirely within his powers.
I determined to explore the corridors in the general direction indicated by the plans, and with this in mind I informed the keeper of the keys that I would be working late, and that he should leave me with the means to lock the outer doors when I left.
Although I was used to being in the Museum, the experience of the closed and silent institution was unsettling17. I took my flashlight, and began to walk in the direction mapped out by the plan. At first the corridors were familiar, lined with shelves and cupboards containing specimens and illustrated volumes of artefacts, but eventually the spaces became narrow, with alcoves containing objects that produces strange shadows when my light chanced to illuminate their contours. As I progressed I became aware of an odd sensation, the feeling that someone was following me, and I was sure I felt a breath of air on the back of neck, as if someone very close had exhaled behind me. But when I turned there was no one there.
Eventually the corridors began to slope downwards, and the construction of the walls changed from old concrete to blocks of stone, which, though old, had been carefully wrought to produce a seamless surface. The shelves that now lined the walls were dusty, bending under the weight of boxes that had not been opened for many years. Rounding a corner I came across a shelf that had collapsed, strewing boxes and contents across the stone floor. In the light cast by my torch I could discern scraps of cloth and small bones amongst the dust, but nothing recognisable18.
I was now nearing the area indicated as containing the Schlaken Library, and therefore I
began to examine the walls for any sign of the entrance to such a place. I discovered few
doorways, and those that I encountered led only to small and empty offices, though often
these contained furniture and personal effects that implied that the inhabitant had vacated
the room precipitately those many years ago.
After a few hours of meandering I began to grow weary, and was on the point of retracing my steps and returning to my office when I became aware of a slight glimmer of light at the end of the furthest corridor. As I neared this juncture I realised that the light was coming from the window of a small door in the middle of the wall of the left-hand passage that led from the present corridor. The light was greenish in tint, which I assumed as being the result of the years of dust on the window, but, upon opening the door, I discerned the illumination beyond as being of this colour, and indeed of coming from no easily distinguishable source. As soon as I entered the light seemed to dim markedly, leaving me to rely on the illumination from my torch
The room I entered was large, and twice the height of the main galleries of the museum. At first I could make out no details, for the air was filled with dust and had the odour of decay, but eventually I saw a long balcony running the length of the far end of the room. I approach this, and as I neared I discovered that this balcony was lined with bookcases, and my light caught the gold lettering on the spines of many fine volumes. I was drawn irresistibly towards the books, trying to make out the titles, but no matter how much I tried to focus my vision the books seemed to fade and grow transparent, as if hardy there but solely the mere apparition of the book.
As I stood gazing up I became aware of three doors that gave access to the balcony of books, and no sooner had I noticed these than the window of the central one became illuminated, and a shadow darkened the aperture.
I watched as the door slowly opened, and a dark form filled the doorway blotting out all light. I shone my torch at the figure, but there was only a void, an emptiness that seemed to pull the light into itself. And I felt myself being pulled into this nothingness.
I recall stumbling back up the corridors towards the museum fitfully, and only regained full consciousness of my surroundings upon the arrival of daylight. I was huddled close to the main door of the building, facing the direction of the rising sun, as if praying for light to drive away the darkness. My clothes were covered in mould and stank of the grave.
1 The Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton is a library in one book, a cabinet of curiosities, a strange, book about sadness. It cannot be assigned to any category, being philosophy, psychology, literature, medicine (though I would be wary of the cures within).
2 The Picton Library in Liverpool is the instigator of this vision, for it has such balconies of books. I recall searching for The Order of Things, slowly circumnavigating the central space from the vantage point of the second balcony. I realized that I no longer cared if I found the book, for this wandering existence in this world of books was more than enough. I am reminded of The Library of Babel, by Borges.
3 This image is from a play, though what play I have never been able to discover. All I recall is glancing through a collected volume of plays (Howard Brenton?) in the library and coming across the quote, but never being able to find the quote again. Did I make it up? It only matters in academia, nowhere else. The joy of libraries is the chance encounter.
4 Books on museum design show this to perfection. If you wish, read The Birth of the Museum. Tony Bennet connects museums to the institutional structures of knowledge, tying together museums and prisons, which though true seems unfair. Buildings and Power is also an excellent volume, with the added advantage of diagrams that show how museums, prisons, libraries are all part of an institutional structure designed to produce a good citizen.
5 A design for the Natural History Museum in London (all part of the disagreements between Huxley and Owen on what such a museum should be) had glass cabinets that ran the length of the galleries, with access to the public on one side, and access for researchers on the other. The production of knowledge as part of the display, which seems very contemporary. See Nature’s Museums by Carla Yanni.
6 It could be argued that the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford is exactly this, a place of wonders yet based on an outmoded way of thinking about the world. I suggest reading the chapter on collecting in Interpreting Objects and Collections, by Susan M. Pearce.
7 Rereading this I am reminded of Gormenghast, which I now recall has much to do with books and tradition.
8 Schlaken was a minor painter of the time of Rembrandt (who was not a minor painter). He is the subject of a ghost story by J.S. LeFanu, which was subsequently made into an excellent short film, directed by Leslie Megahey.
9 The paintings of William Hodges are in the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, UK. They were worked up from drawings made on the second voyage of Captain Cook, and retain the sense of the utter strangeness of the scenes encounter.
10 Haploteuthis ferox is the Latin name given to the carnivorous octopi who invade the South Coast of England in H.G. Wells The Sea Invaders. See any of the various editions of H.G. Wells The Collected Short Stories.
11 The now clear-cut divisions between were not always so, and the example I think of in this regard is Dr. John Dee. The Queen’s Conjuror by Benjamin Woolley is a good biography, and there is a fascinating chapter in The Occult Philosophy in the Elizabethan Age by Frances Yates on Dee in relations to Spencer’s The Faerie Queene.
12 This idea of someone being haunted comes from M.R. James, see The Collected Ghost Stories, especially Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad.
13 This is a reference to H.P. Lovecraft and his myriad of stories centring on the Cthulhu myths. I am still fascinated by these stories, despite their obvious formulaic narratives. The best of the longer stories is At the Mountains of Madness. See The Secret Life of Puppets by Victoria Nelson for an overview of the work of Lovecraft in relation to the literature of supernatural.
14 The library of Sir Francis Willoughby, of Wollaton Hall in Nottingham, UK, was said to contain many volumes where the words ‘the Pope’ had been erased with great violence. The architect of Wollaton Hall was Robert Smythson, see Robert Smythson by M. Girouard for details of this strange place, and the (possible) source of the story.
15 This refers to the discovery of fragments of the diary of Dr. Dee in the hidden drawer of a large (burnt by the Great Fire of London) box.
16 The Black Arts by Richard Cavendish is a good reference for the appearance of these occult diagrams.
17 Umberto Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum begins with a wonderful description of the uncanniness of the closed museum.
18 The idea of the sloping paths to the unknown, and of the fragments of cloth, are both references to the H.G. Wells story The Time Machine. In the far future reached by the narrator is a ruined edifice called The Palace of Green Porcelain, and here he encounters the fragments of a long-abandoned library. This leads to the realization that for the future generations all the knowledge contained in books will be of no meaning. It may be that we are embarking on that journey now, as ‘information’ overtakes knowledge.
After a few hours of meandering I began to grow weary, and was on the point of retracing my steps and returning to my office when I became aware of a slight glimmer of light at the end of the furthest corridor. As I neared this juncture I realised that the light was coming from the window of a small door in the middle of the wall of the left-hand passage that led from the present corridor. The light was greenish in tint, which I assumed as being the result of the years of dust on the window, but, upon opening the door, I discerned the illumination beyond as being of this colour, and indeed of coming from no easily distinguishable source. As soon as I entered the light seemed to dim markedly, leaving me to rely on the illumination from my torch
The room I entered was large, and twice the height of the main galleries of the museum. At first I could make out no details, for the air was filled with dust and had the odour of decay, but eventually I saw a long balcony running the length of the far end of the room. I approach this, and as I neared I discovered that this balcony was lined with bookcases, and my light caught the gold lettering on the spines of many fine volumes. I was drawn irresistibly towards the books, trying to make out the titles, but no matter how much I tried to focus my vision the books seemed to fade and grow transparent, as if hardy there but solely the mere apparition of the book.
As I stood gazing up I became aware of three doors that gave access to the balcony of books, and no sooner had I noticed these than the window of the central one became illuminated, and a shadow darkened the aperture.
I watched as the door slowly opened, and a dark form filled the doorway blotting out all light. I shone my torch at the figure, but there was only a void, an emptiness that seemed to pull the light into itself. And I felt myself being pulled into this nothingness.
I recall stumbling back up the corridors towards the museum fitfully, and only regained full consciousness of my surroundings upon the arrival of daylight. I was huddled close to the main door of the building, facing the direction of the rising sun, as if praying for light to drive away the darkness. My clothes were covered in mould and stank of the grave.
1 The Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton is a library in one book, a cabinet of curiosities, a strange, book about sadness. It cannot be assigned to any category, being philosophy, psychology, literature, medicine (though I would be wary of the cures within).
2 The Picton Library in Liverpool is the instigator of this vision, for it has such balconies of books. I recall searching for The Order of Things, slowly circumnavigating the central space from the vantage point of the second balcony. I realized that I no longer cared if I found the book, for this wandering existence in this world of books was more than enough. I am reminded of The Library of Babel, by Borges.
3 This image is from a play, though what play I have never been able to discover. All I recall is glancing through a collected volume of plays (Howard Brenton?) in the library and coming across the quote, but never being able to find the quote again. Did I make it up? It only matters in academia, nowhere else. The joy of libraries is the chance encounter.
4 Books on museum design show this to perfection. If you wish, read The Birth of the Museum. Tony Bennet connects museums to the institutional structures of knowledge, tying together museums and prisons, which though true seems unfair. Buildings and Power is also an excellent volume, with the added advantage of diagrams that show how museums, prisons, libraries are all part of an institutional structure designed to produce a good citizen.
5 A design for the Natural History Museum in London (all part of the disagreements between Huxley and Owen on what such a museum should be) had glass cabinets that ran the length of the galleries, with access to the public on one side, and access for researchers on the other. The production of knowledge as part of the display, which seems very contemporary. See Nature’s Museums by Carla Yanni.
6 It could be argued that the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford is exactly this, a place of wonders yet based on an outmoded way of thinking about the world. I suggest reading the chapter on collecting in Interpreting Objects and Collections, by Susan M. Pearce.
7 Rereading this I am reminded of Gormenghast, which I now recall has much to do with books and tradition.
8 Schlaken was a minor painter of the time of Rembrandt (who was not a minor painter). He is the subject of a ghost story by J.S. LeFanu, which was subsequently made into an excellent short film, directed by Leslie Megahey.
9 The paintings of William Hodges are in the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, UK. They were worked up from drawings made on the second voyage of Captain Cook, and retain the sense of the utter strangeness of the scenes encounter.
10 Haploteuthis ferox is the Latin name given to the carnivorous octopi who invade the South Coast of England in H.G. Wells The Sea Invaders. See any of the various editions of H.G. Wells The Collected Short Stories.
11 The now clear-cut divisions between were not always so, and the example I think of in this regard is Dr. John Dee. The Queen’s Conjuror by Benjamin Woolley is a good biography, and there is a fascinating chapter in The Occult Philosophy in the Elizabethan Age by Frances Yates on Dee in relations to Spencer’s The Faerie Queene.
12 This idea of someone being haunted comes from M.R. James, see The Collected Ghost Stories, especially Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad.
13 This is a reference to H.P. Lovecraft and his myriad of stories centring on the Cthulhu myths. I am still fascinated by these stories, despite their obvious formulaic narratives. The best of the longer stories is At the Mountains of Madness. See The Secret Life of Puppets by Victoria Nelson for an overview of the work of Lovecraft in relation to the literature of supernatural.
14 The library of Sir Francis Willoughby, of Wollaton Hall in Nottingham, UK, was said to contain many volumes where the words ‘the Pope’ had been erased with great violence. The architect of Wollaton Hall was Robert Smythson, see Robert Smythson by M. Girouard for details of this strange place, and the (possible) source of the story.
15 This refers to the discovery of fragments of the diary of Dr. Dee in the hidden drawer of a large (burnt by the Great Fire of London) box.
16 The Black Arts by Richard Cavendish is a good reference for the appearance of these occult diagrams.
17 Umberto Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum begins with a wonderful description of the uncanniness of the closed museum.
18 The idea of the sloping paths to the unknown, and of the fragments of cloth, are both references to the H.G. Wells story The Time Machine. In the far future reached by the narrator is a ruined edifice called The Palace of Green Porcelain, and here he encounters the fragments of a long-abandoned library. This leads to the realization that for the future generations all the knowledge contained in books will be of no meaning. It may be that we are embarking on that journey now, as ‘information’ overtakes knowledge.
