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Twenty years ago, when I was living in Washington, D.C., and working on the book Becoming Charlemagne, a friend pointed out that the garden at the National Cathedral, my favorite neighborhood refuge, was home to a massive stone baptismal font from Charlem…
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More than twenty years ago, I met Wandalbert of Prüm, a calendar-obsessed monk who was born the year before Charlemagne died.
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I loved the heyday of blogs.
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The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted than they were surrounded by a branch mob of the honest and independent, who forthwith set up three deafening cheers, which being responded to by the main body (for it’s not at all necessary for a crowd to know wh…
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Some famous places are rightly hard to reach.
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“A lot of writers seem really dumb, but you don’t, so I thought I should write to you.”
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Early last year I heard from Paul Deane, a theoretical linguist who maintains the website alliteration.net and edits Forgotten Ground Regained: A Journal of Alliterative Verse.
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In October, a rare free weekend surprised me.
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I set down this remembrance here, because it is an instance to myself of the manner in which I fitted my old books to my altered life, and made stories for myself, out of the streets, and out of men and women; and how some main points in the character I s…
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Once, this blog flourished.