The gate swung open for me in Oxford, its shadow like a lady’s fan widening its welcome in the bright morning sun, the ivory towers of the fabled Bodleian Library reaching skyward in the distance.
In a feat of sublime orchestration, this collection of books pays homage to the alphabet, that most humble set of abstract symbols with which ephemeral words and stories find their most enduring form, in books.
I am going to England. An invitation to the artist reception to see my little book on the revered Oxford campus is as good a reason as any to make a pilgrimage to the country that has sung my name since I was a child.
A royal coronation, traditional arts of calligraphy and illumination, mythic overtones – any of these would have been enough to catch my interest. But throw in a Green Man and I’m intrigued beyond measure.