Literary London

London is, and has been for hundreds of years, home to writers, poets and playwrights from across the globe. Unintentionally, my most recent trip had a focus on exploring this side to the city.

Saturday begun with a trek out to Clapham Common with my housemates to visit the Soseki museum. If I hadn't taken this year out, I wouldn't know anything of Soseki; let alone that there was a museum dedicated to him hidden in London. Months ago, my housemate had said that the one author from Japan that I had to read was Natsume Soseki. So I did. To date I have only read Kokoro (Heart) but I intend to continue with his bibliography; he has a beautiful, gentle style which captures the human condition.

We wandered down The Chase until we spotted the iconic blue sign. Across the road, on the second floor of a typical London townhouse, is the Soseki Museum. It has two rooms: one composed of photographs and memorabilia from his time in England, the other a library of first folios and translated editions. The lady running the museum was ever so kind, ensuring we got the most from the tiny place, delving into what wasn't written on the displays. We were free to linger as long as we wished and browse through the books at our leisure. Such a delightful experience.

On my way to meeting Adam, I decided to pay homage to Virginia Woolf by walking to her residence at Hyde Park Gate. Woolf spent her life in London which is reflected through some her work. Having recently read The London Scene, a collection of essays she wrote about the city, I wanted to see one of the areas she knew so intimately. There’s something inexplicably fulfilling about this kind of activity; if you're a fellow bookworm, I think you'll know what I mean.

That evening, we had tickets to see The Merchant of Venice at The Globe. As expected, the production was truly amazing; capitalising on the comedic elements of the play whilst pressing the audience to question the morality of the final outcome. I left energised and wanting to delve into the politics at the centre of the play, praying that I’ll have the opportunity to study it in the coming years.

The beauty of outdoor theatre is that you’re trying your luck with the weather; on this occasion we experienced real-life pathetic fallacy as the clouds greyed above us. Reaching the final, heart-wrenching scene, the rain began to pour. I am a complete sucker for moments like this; it really couldn't have been more perfectly timed.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, I concluded my literary foray into London by visiting a bookshop. Specifically, Brick Lane Bookshop. This is one of those shops which proves exactly why we need to keep our indies alive: by the window there is a display of books on East London and, as you follow through, it has been organised into collections of books not simply by genre. It's a space that evokes the reader in you, inspires you to try something new. I picked up two from Penguin’s Great Ideas range: The Communist Manifesto and Orwell’s Why I write. Can you tell that I’d spent the previous twenty hours with a Social-Anthropology student?

I look forward to future trips and discovering even more of London’s literary gems. I would love to know of your favourite spots.