I am a MASSIVE Nerd.

I honestly never realized it until tonight. But I'm a huge nerd. Like really, really big. Big and obnoxious.

and i love it.

Tonight I went to a "Rare Book" dinner. Sounds boring, right? Absolutely not. I was enthralled.

The person who ran it is Collin Franklin, a rare book collector. I thought the dinner was going to entail random original manuscripts of books that no one cares about. Books that are shoved away in stacks in the back of the library that you sometimes have to grudgingly look up as a part of a 15-page essay or some assignment for class. How could I be so wrong?

These were books that I have never heard of. And yet, I found myself staying past the 9:30 deadline looking at these exquisite books from the 1700-1900s. Yes, this must seem so boring to you. But you weren't there. There was this book that outlined patterns that kimonos were designed after. Yes...this book invented the designs that some of the most "in fashion" kimonos replicated. And it was the original. I can't even describe it to you.

I also saw the smallest book in the world. I repeat: THE SMALLEST BOOK IN THE WORLD. When I was forewarned about such a book, I thought it would be a cinch to read. I'm 20 years old with perfect 20/20 eyesight (or better), yet I couldn't make out one word. One single word. It was tiny. The owner told us that the guy who made it (and it was made by a teeny-tiny printing press back in the day) went blind upon completion of the book. No wonder.

My favorite book of the evening is called "Cave Birds" by Ted Hughes. Not only is it a book of poetry about one of my favorite animals, but it boasts beautiful depictions of owls, roosters, eagles and many other birds. Pictures I have never seen in my life. Original drawings. These drawings captured each bird's qualities and helped you see things you never would have noticed on your own. It also tied human characteristics with the stereotype of each bird. I could easily have spent thirty minutes on each drawing/poem. EASILY. I don't even know what to say.

Ted Hughes, the author of this book, was married to Sylvia Plath until her suicide in 1963. I read "The Bell Jar" by her a few years ago. And my, was she an amazing writer.

Which makes me wonder: how could two brilliant minds who get married and "love" each other have such problems and instability that one of them commits suicide? I mean, they were brilliant, right? I could never compose one poem, let alone volumes and volumes that they do. And yet, they were still unhappy.

Which also makes me wonder: if you have money and status and brains and a husband and children and everything that "matters" under your belt, how can you still be unhappy? What "creates" happiness?

Even though Plath only became really famous after her death, familiarity doesn't create happiness. So what does?





A single from an Oxford band.




No, I'm not on drugs.