Seventh floor, far corner to the right. Or maybe it’s the left. I’m completely surrounded by books and it’s kind of eerie being hidden in the stacks. There’s a window that doesn’t open and my chair squeaks and I’m sure plenty of students have sat at this wobbly desk into all hours of the night, feverishly writing papers and glancing up occasionally to see books on Plato and Seneca, hopeless and stressed and wishing that they didn’t leave their paper or problem set until the last minute or annoyed that they didn’t attend more lectures earlier in the quarter.
I took a look at the Stanford Alpine Club’s documents in Special Collections a few days ago. It was for my writing class, and I read about their crusades and adventures and got to hold the yellow legal paper that they wrote lists on what to pack on their climbing trips, who was to bring what, how much things weighed. It was from the sixties or seventies, and it was so real. Their handwriting and errors and drawings in the margins were real.
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