(#1) Craven Street: Herman Melville.
A diverted bus route takes me up Craven Street, a steep, narrow lane that boasts three notable residents. Neither Heinrich Heine (German Romantic poet), nor Benjamin Franklin (American statesman, writer, inventor, star of Day of the Tentacle) have been given blue Heritage plaques. That respect has been only granted to Melville. A fitting service, given his relatively late-blooming reputation. His books - including Moby Dick - fell out of print during his own lifetime, only to be eventually hailed as among his country’s greatest artistic works. A book many recognise, but few have read. The plaque carries on this trend; while his work may remain in digital print for perpetuity, his reputation is maintained through this blank, prosaic index card of a memorial: ‘Herman Melville, author of Moby Dick, lived here in 1849’.
Print of a different kind was on my mind, as I strode into Charing Cross station, and purchased - handing over plastic money with knuckles split by the cold - a copy of The New Yorker. A long-form profile of writer Neil Gaiman by Dana Goodyear jumps off the pages: a form of engrossing journalism too elongated for web browsing. I anticipate the maturation of e-readers, so that this currently-endangered discipline can flourish once more.
