Knowledge is power

But for real. It is. Having new knowledge makes me feel really mighty, even when it is knowledge that can never possibly be useful for anything, ever. Like Merlin Holland's fax number. Or Samuel Pepys and his amusing use of French. Or the word for "black stockings" in French. All of these things, they make me feel stronger and more prepared for everything that happens.

Like! Scenario! Okay, it's The Last Judgment, and all the living and the dead rise up and get set to be judged, and Robert Browning's standing next to me in line (they've got it set up by birthdays, obviously), and we're chatting, and he gets all judgy about, I don't know, about how much trashy TV I watched during my lifetime. Something like that. Well, okay, he's all being a douche to me, and finally I get fed up with it, and because of my KNOWLEDGE, I can say to him, "Oh yeah? Oh yeah, Robert Browning? Well, YOU didn't know what twat meant! The OED, the OED, had to come find you and stage an intervention, that's how much you didn't know the meaning of that word!" And he'll be really embarrassed and back off and beg me to lower my voice and assure me that it's nothing, really, even he could enjoy a good episode of Gossip Girl and I shouldn't feel ashamed that I had used my valuable time on earth watching it.

Now, granted, this exact scenario will never occur, because for one thing, I don't think the Lord is going to arrange us by birthday (height would be much more fun); and for another thing, Robert Browning is a sweet dear and would not be a douche to me at all. But, you know, if anything like this ever does happen, I am prepared.

Similarly, if there's some major Oscar Wilde emergency, I can get in touch with Merlin Holland. Like if I suddenly discover a cache of nasty letters from Alfred Douglas in my attack. Yes, it's unlikely, but what if I did? What would I do with them if I couldn't fax Merlin Holland an urgent note asking him what my next move should be?

I only mention this because the other day some furniture got delivered to my house, and the invoice was on my kitchen table, and then underneath it there was a list of all the other deliveries that were going on that day, and I just happened to glance down at them, so now I know who else got furniture delivered that day. And it pleased me, because in case I ever run into Clem and Susan Mallory of Magnolia Drive and they turn out to be vicious killing machines and they have thrown aside all those who have tried to fight them and are advancing on me, I can be like "Oh Clem? Susie? I just have to ask before you kill me – how are you liking that cinnebar mahogany chair with the polyurethane foam cushions in leopard-print with small tufts?", at which point, astounded and alarmed by my KNOWLEDGE, they will pause just long enough for one of the people they thought they killed to come up behind them and crush their skulls with an axe.

And that's nothing to sneer at.

Edit to add: I was counting all the recent posts I've made about books and writers lately (many!), and I reread this one and realized that I wrote "attack" for "attic" when I was talking about Lord Alfred Douglas. I was going to fix it, but it's so clearly one of those mistakes you make because your brain is thinking something else while you're typing, and that particular mistake seems very characteristic of my relationship to the idea of Lord Alfred Douglas and his entire psychotic messed-up family.