Lost books, L-space, libraries and the odour of bananas

Lost books, L-space, libraries and the odour of bananas

I have a recurring dream of a lost book that I have somehow found. It’s a beautiful book, filled with marvels, hand-written in quirky calligraphy as if by someone who has seen how calligraphy looks but has never been taught how to do it “properly” (bit like me, actually). It has drawings in it that remind you of illuminated manuscripts, and some which are entirely different. It has some resemblance to Jung’s famous Red Book, but the writing is in English and the drawings are not the same. Each time the book pops up in dreams, I wonder whose book it is, whether it exists in our ordinary reality or whether it is something that may one day exist or has once existed and exists no more.

A few nights ago on British TV, there was a programme on BBC4 on the lost manuscript of Julian of Norwich. I’ve long been a fan of Julian and her work (see my blog post here) and I watched with great interest. The programme itself was a tad irritating (largely because the presenter made too many assertions that simply don’t bear closer scrutiny), though it did have some great sequences filmed in and around Norwich, which is one of my favourite cities in Europe (and only about 25 miles away), but it revealed some facts about Julian’s book I hadn’t known before. The manuscript itself was suppressed and hidden, going underground (so to speak), because its contents were liable to be seen as potentially heretical and certainly revolutionary (a loving God who was seen as our Mother and who cared for each and every human and written by, shock, horror, a woman? Gosh.). Its route to the mainstream was a strange one; copies of it were held in various monastic libraries, like that of Walsingham Abbey, but it’s unclear how many and how widespread they were. At the time of the Dissolution of the monasteries, many of their libraries were confiscated and countless bookish treasures destroyed. The Revelations of Divine Love disappears, only to have a copy resurface amid the books taken to France with nine young Englishwomen setting out to found a new Benedictine Order in the early part of the seventeenth century. The book was copied by the nuns and perhaps dispersed until the French Revolution intervened, and such orders attacked and destroyed. When their Carmelite sisters were sent to the guillotine, the English sisters expected to follow, but the terror came to an end, and they were allowed to return to England (taking with them relics of their martyred Carmelite sisters, and whatever other things they’d saved). The order still exists, in God’s own county, at the abbey they founded on their return, Stanbrook Abbey. But they didn’t have Julian’s book, either copies or the original.

Fast forward to the early part of the twentieth century and the era of the suffragettes, and a determined Scottish woman comes to the British library in search of a copy of Julian’s book, aiming to find the original or as close to that as possible, to make a new translation of the original. Mis-shelved under witchcraft and magic, and mis-titled in the catalogue, a copy made by those English nuns turns up, no one knows how, and is the closest to the original fourteenth century text that anyone knows of.

The book has dipped in and out of biblio-history, escaping the bonfires of fanatics and the vagaries of time itself, championed largely by women, and emerging time and again when women need it. At the end of the programme, a professor of medieval literature says that it’s eminently possible that the original manuscript itself might one day just turn up somewhere; he comments that rare books do this all the time.

Books are fragile things, subject to the forces of time and the forces of nature, and yet they endure. If you have read Umberto Eco’s brilliant book, The Name of the Rose, or Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s The Shadow of the Wind, the idea of a lost book, hidden and suppressed yet passed on secretly and lurking on the shelves of libraries or even bookshops, is a seductive, romantic (in its truest sense) and obsessive notion. If you have read the Discworld novels by the late, great Sir Terry Pratchett, you will be familiar with the concept of L-space: the theory that the sheer weight of books creates a kind of kink in the space-time continuum, whereby all libraries are connected and all librarians are mystical custodians of L-space. The librarian of the Unseen University, whose name has long been forgotten, is an orang-utan (the result of a spell cast but since the shape proved to be more congenial to his job, the Librarian resisted all offers to restore him to his original human form).Wandering the darker recesses of old and rambling libraries, where a poorly-plotted route through the dusty stacks on a winter evening when the night falls hard and cold outside and the interior is cosy and warm, if fuggy, can result in getting lost in areas one didn’t know existed, and one can not only believe in L-space but it becomes the only thing that makes any sense of how books can disappear for centuries, and reappear in unexpected and improbable places, hardly aged, but bearing the faint traces of the odour of bananas.

17 thoughts on “Lost books, L-space, libraries and the odour of bananas

  1. Very much enjoyed. Think of those brave women, hosts of them, attempting to establish ‘equality’ so far back, and how long a move towards this has taken (and still it seems like powerful women begin to act in the style of men!) In Medieval times, the only way to escape marriage (as in becoming property) was to be a Nun … I always think, Jesus tried his best to establish the equality of women … and how the ‘church fathers’ managed to write us out as they developed the model for church.


    • 🙂 I considered becoming a nun myself when I was 19 or so. I’m reading some interesting books on “women’s issues” at present and I can only say, we have been done a massive disservice and injury over the centuries.


  2. Viv, if I ever get to England, Norwich is on my list of places to visit. That and Salisbury, to see where Susan Howatch used to hang out (and Venetia Flaxton, one of her best characters).

    I discovered Julian of Norwich a few years ago and read through her Showings, probably the most refreshing accounts ever of the crucifixion and the Trinity and creation (I love the hazelnut analogy). You might be interested in my blog post. It’s short:



  3. Pingback: Sunday Post – 24th July | Brainfluff

  4. Books, it seems, are among the ultimate survivors, which is weird, as you say, since on the face of it they’re so fragile. I love this idea of yours, though. You can almost imagine a librarian sneaking around L-space, popping through at times of great upheaval and snatching rare and valuable books away to safety in the nick of time, then sneaking them back through when things have calmed down a bit and they’ll be more valued than feared…


    • Having got lost in a few libraries and archives and museum stacks in my time, I feel convinced that L-space is a real thing, and am looking forward to the day when various incredible treasures finally come to light again.


  5. What an interesting article. Thank you for educating me a bit more. Fascinating woman, Julian of Norwich. 🙂 xx


  6. Fascinating history of Julian’s manuscript! And I love the concept of L-space – another wonderful Pratchetism. I wonder how Kindle’s connect to it? The purists would deny that e-books have any connection with real books, but I can’t help feeling that L-space must exist on a plane where questions of paper versus e-reader are simply irrelevant. Somewhere, all these things are connected in a pure essence of Story…


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