I think, at a child’s birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift would be curiosity. Eleanor Roosevelt.
What wise words; especially for future scientists….and writers! English crime novelist Ann Cleeves was asked what motivated her to become a writer and her answer was; ‘Curiosity’. When she was a probation officer she was fascinated by the reports on her clients. However, she was frustrated that she was unable to change the outcome of cases and began to write fiction.
I think curiosity is the only trait I have that gives me any licence to write. I was the child who sat quietly listening to all the dark old family stories told over endless cups of tea. I write non-fiction, which is why many of my stories have no ‘happy’ endings…or any resolution at all for that matter.
What wonderful places they are. My personal feelings are similar to those expressed by Germaine Greer;
Libraries are reservoirs of strength , grace and wit, reminders of order, calm and continuity, lakes of mental energy, neither warm or cold, light or dark…In any library of the world, I am home, unselfconscious, still and absorbed.
THE UTTER JOY OF RESEARCH
However, Germaine did not mention the sheer excitement of research. It is a mental treasure hunt, with wonderful moments whenever a nugget of vital information appears.
Author Stephen Scheding understood perfectly. While researching his book A Small Unsigned Painting, he spent hours at Sydney’s Mitchell Library searching for a telephone number in an old directory. His joy when successful was unbounded; ‘I can’t believe it. I want to shout out in the vast muffledness of the library. I want to tell all the other researchers. I know that they would just love to share my triumph…..I rudely jump the queue at the front desk to get the Sands NSW Directory off the reference shelf. I haven’t got time to explain my frenzied manner, but I’m sure the other researchers in the queue would understand…..’ Yes, we would, Stephen.
I suspect it was the gleam in the eye of people like Scheding and myself that prompted the NSW State Library to hang a sign on the stairs asking patrons not to slide down the bannister. (It has since been removed, which I hope does not reflect diminished enthusiasm.)
It occurs to me that all this explains why I love to be at fishing harbours when the tide is out. My partner thinks it just looks messy, with all the anchor chains and seaweed and lopsided boats. But I love the chance to see what’s underneath the surface. It would be even better If I could run a metal detector along the sand.
I have more library cards than credit cards. They allow me entrance to half a dozen public libraries, the Mitchell Library’s Special Collections, the Australian National Library, and the British Library. For one magical week I also held temporary membership of the Bodleian, in Oxford.
I was issued with a readers’ ticket when I was researching my book The Water Doctor’s Daughters. As part of the Bodleian’s strict admission procedures, I was required to make an oral declaration promising not to steal or deface books or , ‘ bring into the library, or kindle therein, any fire or flame.’ When I finally entered the ancient Duke Humphrey room I experienced the same feeling of awe described by Charles Lamb;
‘What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the souls of all the writers that have bequeathed their labors to these Bodleians were reposing here, as in some dormitory or middle state. I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding sheets.’
The Bodleian is strictly a research library, so you are not allowed to actually borrow the books. Mind you, King Charles I was not allowed to either.
THE NIBBLE ON THE LINE
I do love author Nicholas Shakespeare’s words on research;
‘So much of research involves combing for wayward threads. Most of the time you pluck and what comes away is fluff. Just occasionally, as in fishing, the line goes taut and you feel a tug like a submerged handshake.’
I almost missed one of those tugs while researching the life of the controversial Tasmanian surgeon Victor Ratten. Leaving his position as bank clerk in a rural New South Wales town in 1897, 20 year old Victor was presented with a gift and wished bon voyage. I presumed he had left for Sydney, where he initially trained as a dentist. It was months before the words bon voyage penetrated my consciousness. Surely that suggested travel by sea rather than an overland journey to the city?
Eureka! More investigation came up with one tiny reference to Victor and a friend setting off from Sydney on a world bicycle tour. Mind you, I don’t think they got far, because I could not find another word. However, it revealed a great deal about Victor Ratten’s character.
No cure for curiosity? Well thank goodness for that, Dorothy.
By the way, my associate Editor Des loves setting off on a research trip as much as I do.
You forgot your pen, Des.