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Moving as I often did among the rows of books I found a small table at a window on an upper floor. Removing my long coat, I laid it, still wet, across the back of a low, cushioned chair. I had not come for any particular book or any particular reason that morning, but merely, as I so often did, to wander about and see what stories might await me on the pages of an old book. In fact, remembering back, I usually searched for the oldest book that I could find and picked it up, at the very least leafing through it, sometimes reading the entire work. That morning was no different. Only, it was different.
The overhead fluorescent lights on this aisle were burnt out, hiding the shelves in shadows and intriguing me even more. I stepped into that aisle and slowly scanned the shelves. Quickly, I spotted a gem: published in 1872, I believe, this book was titled The River and had on the inside cover, a stamp that read "Property of the 3rd Cavalry Regiment: Post Library Do not remove". I smiled and leafed through the book, having already read the most interesting part. I continued slowly down the aisle, finding nothing unusually interesting. Then a title caught my eye: A Noise of War. Quickly I pulled the book from the shelve and opened it. A Noise of War: Caesar, Pompey, Octavian, and the Struggle for Rome was its full title.
I put the book
under my arm and returned to that table by the window. Outside, the clouds
were all but gone now and dawn was breaking with gold and red. I sat there
that day and read A Noise of War from cover to cover. A week later,
I read it again. That book is by far one of the most enjoyable histories
I have ever come upon. Ever. It is told with the fluidity of an epic and
the flavor of a tale spoken over a fire. Its author is one A. J. Langguth,
and any book that he has written, I would recommend.
That day was not an uncommon one, and I have spent many such days both before and since then, in the same fashion. It is my love for the stories that takes me there, to that library, or that old book store. It is my love for the telling of them that has brought me to write this. No doubt what is presented in these pages is unusual, but that is my intent. Too many do not know of Leonidas and Thermopylae, or of the love shared by Aeneas and Dido, or of the Crusades, or even the tale of Prvt. Roger Young and the Second World War. These are stories that must be told. They call out to the teller and reader alike. As Longfellow said, "Lives of great men all remind us, we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leave behind us, footprints on the sands of time."- A Psalm of Life
The Troubadour is something in each one of us, something that longs for what our television cannot provide: a journey of the imagination, something to inspire dreams, and make men long for greatness. The Troubadour tells us stories of the virtues and the evils of this world. His tales can fill our hearts with gladness or bring tears to our eyes. That is his power.
I am not the Troubadour,
but I do know him, as do you. Perhaps sometime when the mood is right and
the wine is gone, perhaps after an evening shower in late spring, or when
the cold north wind blows and a snow begins to fall, you should take time
and sit amongst the trees of a park somewhere or huddled up in blankets
by a warm fire, and open a book, an old one preferably, perhaps even Edward
Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and open your heart
to the Troubadour. You shall not be disappointed. . .
Nevertheless, I am sure some of you might wish to know who I am, and quite frankly, I don't blame you. Before I begin, I should say that if you are interested in getting to know me, you have only to drop an e-mail my way. I respond to all correspondence. Anyhow, on to the task at hand.
My name is Timothy Kearns. I have decided to write these pages for a few reasons. The first, of course, being for the sheer love of it. The second is a larger ambition that I have: to see if I cannot spark the imagination of at least one person, somewhere. A modest goal, but one difficult to achieve. Education, my friends; if I can help one person along in their education, then it will be worth it. Perhaps I am of the opinion that professors and lecture notes cannot give one an education. One must first want to be educated and then all that is required is time and a library card. If your library doesn't have the book you want, they can generally order it. None of us have any excuse for ignorance. Perhaps this makes me sound arrogant or even snooty (?) but I assure you, I am not. I am far too romantic to be arrogant and I really haven't the time for it, either.
Primarily in my free time, I do one of several things. I either attempt to flirt with some attractive woman (and usually fail miserably, I might add), or I read, or I pursue my obsession: long distance hiking. That's right. Walking several thousand miles in a few months time with a light backpack and a broad smile. I have, in fact, recently returned from the Pacific Crest Trail. The Crest is a 2,700 mile national scenic trail that runs from the Mexican border up through California, Oregon and Washington and into Canada. To save you the suspense, I didn't make it to Canada. But I did go, and I did try, and as they say, fate favors the bold. Nevertheless, I shall return to the Crest in the summer of 1999, and I will have another go at it. Maybe I will finish, maybe I won't, but I will go and I will live.
If you are reading
this, then that means you have come quite far to find me, so I would ask
everyone of you to e-mail me. Let me know what you think of my site, tell
me a little about yourself, maybe what kind of stories you want to read,
whatever. The business of storytelling is a personal one, and the teller
must know his audience. So please, write away.
Let not my blood beat answer to the sea
The beaches lie alone, so let them lie;
Let me forget the gray banked distant hills,
The echoing emptiness of ancient towns,
No longer let the brown leaves falling
Move me to wander . . . I have songs to sing.
