12.12.01 – Wednesday
Smell of snow and, strangely, dust. Also leaves. Witnessed (a martyrdom indeed!) an incident of performance art in the library foyer, involving a team of ‘dancers’ and books, which received such abuse as dropping & general prop-dom (oh, ignominy!).
Also spent the last geology lecture of the year reading essays by Francis Bacon:
There be some whose lives are is if they perpetually played upon a stage, disguised to all others, open only to themselves. But perpetual dissimulation is painful, and he that is all fortune and no nature is an exquisite hireling. Live not in continual smother, but take some friends with whom to communicate. It will unfold thy understanding; it will evaporate thy affections; it will prepare thy business.
A man may keep a corner of his mind from his friend, and it be but to witness to himself that it is not upon facility, but upon true use of friendship that he imparteth himself. […] Perfection of friendship is but a speculation. It is friendship, when a man can say to himself, I love this man without respect of utility; I am open-hearted to him; I single him from the generality of those with whom I live; I make him a portion of my own wishes.
‘Of Friendship’ (1612)
‘Live not in continual smother…’ Of course not, Frank, wouldn’t dream of it…