Books aren’t just texts, they have their own histories, being cherished, creased and stained by the hands of many owners as they move across nations and the centuries.
One way people have marked their ownership of books is with a bookplate, often designed to match their own identities and personalities. What would your bookplate include?
While thousands more are scattered throughout our historic book collections. Over the last few years our collections teams have identified over 800 unique bookplates in our early printed book collection.
[1: In a library before an oversized book, surreally stands an ostrich who seems to be admiring the bookshelf behind him. The bookplate of a Ralph Straus. EPB/B/30092
2: A yellow spotted snake slithers across an open book in this modernist bookplate of Vladimir Zapletal. EPB/B/37667
3: A beautiful wood panelled room with leaded windows and piles of books on the window sill. This is the bookplate of Fritz Ponsonby, veteran of the Boer and First World War. Below is inscribed his wise motto “Reading maketh a full man”. EPB/B/58946
4:. A nude man in a circle of light is labelled “Sol” and is orbited by the planetary symbols. This strange, esoteric bookplate is of chemistry historian Dr Ernst Darmstaedter, hundreds of whose books now live in our bookstacks.
5: Dragons flit around the crest ofThomas Philip Earl de Grey of Wrest Park (not that Early Grey). EPB/B/4572
6: Three men, one reads in a study, another looks to the heavens and another sows the fields. “Art is man’s nature, nature of God’s art”. EPB/B/58939
7: A cloaked figure, looking like they just stepped out of The Traitors, guards the bookplate of New York Congressman Jacob Sloat Fassett. EPB/F/2284
8: A library, orchids and plankton, there’s a lot going on on the bookplate of American marine zoologist Charles Atwood Kofoid. EPB/D/28525
9: A monk scribbles away and a printer operates the printing press in J Eliot Hodgkin’s bookprint inspired by the bookmakers of the past. EPB/B/31799
10: The complex bookplate of Fairfax of Cameron with lion and unicorn rearing up against an armourial crest. EPB/B/19921]
Elon Musk attacked democracy defender and superstar court lawyer Marc Elias as “undermining civilization,” taunting him by asking if he suffered “generational trauma.”
Elias’s response was brilliant and worth amplifying:
Mr. Musk,
You recently criticized me and another prominent lawyer fighting for the rule of law and democracy in the United States. I am used to being attacked for my work, particularly on the platform you own and dominate.
I used to be a regular on Twitter, where I amassed over 900,000 followers — all organic except for the right-wing bots who seemed to grow in number. Like many others, I stopped regularly posting on the site because, under your stewardship, it became a hellscape of hate and misinformation.
I also used to buy your cars — first a Model X and then a Model S — back when you spoke optimistically about solving the climate crisis. My family no longer owns any of your cars and never will.
But this is not the reason I am writing. You don’t know me. You have no idea whether I have suffered trauma and if I have, how it has manifested. And it’s none of your business.
However, I will address your last point about generational trauma. I am Jewish, though many on your site simply call me “a jew.” Honestly, it’s often worse than that, but I’m sure you get the point. There was a time when Twitter would remove antisemitic posts, but under your leadership, tolerating the world’s oldest hatred now seems to be a permissible part of your “free speech” agenda.
Like many Jewish families, mine came to America because of trauma. They were fleeing persecution in the Pale of Settlement — the only area in the Russian Empire where Jews were legally allowed to reside. Even there, life was difficult — often traumatic. My family, like others, lived in a shtetl and was poor. Worse, pogroms were common — violent riots in which Jews were beaten, killed and expelled from their villages.
By the time my family fled, life in the Pale had become all but impossible for Jews. Tsar Nicholas II’s government spread anti-Jewish propaganda that encouraged Russians to attack and steal from Jews in their communities. My great-grandfather was fortunate to leave when he did. Those who stayed faced even worse circumstances when Hitler’s army later invaded.
That is the generational trauma I carry. The trauma of being treated as “other” by countrymen you once thought were your friends. The trauma of being scapegoated by authoritarian leaders. The trauma of fleeing while millions of others were systematically murdered. The trauma of watching powerful men treat it all as a joke — or worse.
As an immigrant yourself, you can no doubt sympathize with what it means to leave behind your country, extended family, friends and neighbors to come to the United States. Of course, you probably had more than 86 rubles in your pocket. You probably didn’t ride for nine days in the bottom of a ship or have your surname changed by immigration officials. Here is the ship manifest showing that my family did. Aron, age three, was my grandfather.
[see image in comments]
As new immigrants, life wasn’t easy. My family lived in cramped housing without hot water. They worked menial jobs — the kind immigrants still perform today.
Some may look down on those immigrants — the ones without fancy degrees — but my family was proud to work and grateful that the United States took them in. They found support within their Jewish community and a political home in the Democratic Party.
I became a lawyer to give back to the country that gave my family a chance. I specialize in representing Democratic campaigns because I believe in the party. I litigate voting rights cases because the right to vote is the bedrock of our democracy. I speak out about free and fair elections because they are under threat.
Now let me address the real crux of your post.
You are very rich and very powerful. You have thrown in with Donald Trump. Whether it is because you think you can control him or because you share his authoritarian vision, I do not know. I do not care.
Together, you and he are dismantling our government, undermining the rule of law and harming the most vulnerable in our society. I am just a lawyer. I do not have your wealth or your platform. I do not control the vast power of the federal government, nor do I have millions of adherents at my disposal to harass and intimidate my opponents. I may even carry generational trauma.
But you need to know this about me. I am the great-grandson of a man who led his family out of the shtetl to a strange land in search of a better life. I am the grandson of the three-year-old boy on that journey. As you know, my English name is Marc, but my Hebrew name is Elhanan (אֶלְחָנָן) — after the great warrior in David’s army who slew a powerful giant.
I will use every tool at my disposal to protect this country from Trump. I will litigate to defend voting rights until there are no cases left to bring. I will speak out against authoritarianism until my last breath.
I will not back down. I will not bow or scrape. I will never obey.
A painter in Los Angeles kept missing
his exit for the I-5 on the 110 highway,
so he did his research, climbed up the
overhead sign, and changed it himself
without anyone noticing.
This is Richard Ankrom. He couldn’t find his damn exit, cuz it wasn’t properly labelled.
So he took life by the balls, like any self-respecting Californian would do, and used his sign-painting expertise to fix it himself.
He called it ‘guerilla public service.’ Even got himself an outfit to look official. It worked, obvi.
Caltrans investigated, but the sign was actually up to code. They left it there for 8 years before they made an updated sign.
What I really like about this is that the containers all have prominent labels with a camera pointing directly at them, but it’s still called a double-blind trial because the researcher isn’t present and the bear can’t read
I found out during our department DEI committee meeting today that the major federal granting agencies (e.g., NSF, NIH) now have “lists of banned words” that, if found, can cause your grant application to basically go into the shredder.
Among the words the government really hates is “transition” (because RaDiCal GenDEr IdEolOGiEs!). Our committee members are all chemists. If you want to study liquid-vapor phase transitions, you’re screwed. Transition states in a chemical reaction? Nope.
I’m a mass spectrometrist. My little corner of the analytical chemistryverse uses a technique called “multiple reaction monitoring”, where your instrument is simultaneously monitoring a precursor ion and a certain fragment. That specific-combination-of-ions is called a transition.
…I literally can’t even talk about fucking mass spectrometry.
But hey, some trans girl in Iowa can’t play badminton anymore! Victory! Yeah! Cheaper eggs! Make America Great Again!
In my sector meetings are happening with psychological researchers about how to apply for grants studying autism and ADHD without using the word neurodiversity because it has “diversity” in. Elon musks Ctrl + F method of government everyone.
I worked at a community museum run out of a historic freight house, next to the train tracks and historic station and engines and other cars. We hosted model train enthusiasts to set up a display every month. Pretty sure the only NT visitors were the confused people trying to buy train tickets.
Some lady brought her teen semi verbal son in all the time. He’d flap and vocalize and jump up and down. He’d run to the door and watch from the railing rocking back and forth so incredibly excited when we told him the train was on its way (you could hear the whistle as it passed the crossing before ours). He was in fucking love.
Some lady from out of town had the nerve to try and ask me to kick the kid and mom out bc he was disrupting her visit. The look on the mom’s face like “oh no, not from here, not from here too” made me so fucking mad. I agreed that someone was disrupting other visitors, and asked the karen to leave. She threw a fit. I was like “You’re harassing a regular visitor on the basis of disability. Please leave the premises.”
Karen left. I started writing an email explaining to my boss ahead of the inevitable complaint. The mom came up and was like “thank you for making this a place my kid can be happy and himself” and I’m like “ma'am this is a train musuem. If we didn’t have autistic visitors we wouldn’t have visitors.”
Same. The temptation to start replying to comments remarking upon the surprising number of neurodivergent people on tumblr with “ma'am, this is a map store” is remarkably strong
Some individuals with AD/HD, especially without hyperactivity, have an activation problem as described by Thomas Brown, Ph.D. in his article AD/HD without Hyperactivity (1993). Rather than a deficit of attention, this means that individuals can’t deploy attention, direct it, or put it in the right place at the right time. He explains that adults who do not have hyperactivity often have severe difficulty activating enough to start a task and sustaining the energy to complete it. This is especially true for low-interest activities. Often it means that they can’t think of what to do so they might not be able to act at all, or, as Kate Kelly and Peggy Ramundo say in You Mean I’m Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?!, they might experience a “paralysis of will” (pg. 65). “The clothes from my trip—a month ago—are just still lying in a heap in the suitcase.” “I spend a lot of time in bed watching TV but my mind isn’t watching TV. I’m thinking about what I should be doing, but I don’t have the energy to do it.”
- Sari Solden, Women With Attention-Deficit Disorder
As someone who’s had to bake gluten free for several years, watching ppl do shit like this with regular bread feels like literal space age magic to me. Gluten free dough is a consumptive Victorian child who must be coddled and wrapped in silk and prayed over night and day if he stands half a chance of making it to adulthood as anything but a slab of featureless rice mush, and regular bread bakers are out here making whole ass sculptures and quilts and shit. Screw riches and eternal youth, baby, if the devil was real i’d sell my soul in a heartbeat just to be able to rip apart one of these loaves like a feral hog. If you’re intestinally capable of digesting gluten I need you to do something for me right now and close your eyes and spend a moment treasuring this fact. and then go and deep-throat a baguette in my honor
fun thing about herding and/or generally neurotic breeds: they are really good at following rules you have instituted, but they will also make their own Dog Rules they will follow stringently whether or not you like it
despite never being reprimanded for getting sick if my dog throws up she will ‘tattle’ on herself and run over to me, show me the throw up, then hide and start shaking uncontrollably. nobody taught her to do this. she has decided that throwing up is a punishable offense until the end of time
my dog has decided that it’s solely on her shoulders to ensure there is peace in my house…if the cats fight she stands between them to ‘break it up’ and/or herds them away, if my rats have an argument she goes to the cage door and barks until they stop. not sure why she has decided she must carry the weight of the world but she has
Because it is the anniversary of his death, I wanted to share a small story about my grandfather.
Before I knew that I was intersex, I identified as a trans man. And I went the way any trans man has to go if he wants to transition in my country. My parents thankfully were supportive but I was afraid to tell my grandparents. My grandparents were German and lived/were raised during the third reich. While both of them never said or acted in a way that suggested that they had fascist views (my grandfather was until he died part of a leftwing political party), but there still was this fear in me. “They are old, they grew up surrounded by abhorrent beliefs…”. And then there was my aunt. Who would constantly claim that my grandfather was homophobic.
The problem was, back then, there were no openly out gay people in our area, so I never got the chance to see my grandfather interact with someone who was queer. So I just believed her. Because she was so insistent on it. And because it confirmed my fears and my brain loves to be constantly afraid.
But I knew I wanted to come out. I had to, eventually, because I had stopped my estrogen treatment (back then, I did not know that I got that because I was intersex) and went on testosterone instead and first physical changes began to show. We all lived in one big house, so my grandparents would eventually notice.
I was so afraid that my father at some point offered to talk to his parents. I waited outside in the hallway that led to their kitchen and listened.
My father explained, easy to understand, that I was going to transition from female to male because I felt terrible in my body. My grandfather asked, “Is that why the child* is so depressed all this time?” I had been in and out of multiple clinics for manic depression at that point. My father gave a yes. And my grandmother made the incredibly selfish comment, “Can’t that wait until I am dead?”
Before I even got time to be upset, my grandfather slammed his fist down on the table. I had never seen or heard him do anything like that before. He was a very calm and collected man who preferred to leave the room before he got too angry. “No, it can’t wait. The child gets to get well now. And if that is what is going to help, then it needs to be done.”
From that day on, he never used my deadname again or used the wrong pronouns for me. Sometimes, he would stop in a sentence to think and remind himself, but he did always address me correctly.
He celebrated with me when my name was legally changed. He built the bed frame for me and my boyfriend’s bed when we moved in together, just like he had built the first adult sized bedframe for me when I outgrew my small bed. He drove my boyfriend to his chemo sessions because my grandfather also had cancer and knew how terrifying it was to go alone.
Did he fully understand what it means to be intersex? To transition? No. But he understood that one of his loved ones was suffering and that he could help to alleviate that pain. And so he did.
He taught me calligraphy. He taught me how to sew. He taught me bookbinding. He gave me many gifts.
But the biggest gift he gave me was, that when someone hated me for what I am, I could stomach it. Because this man was willing to unlearn the bigotry he had been taught for decades so he could love me for who I am.
*in my grandpa’s dialect it was normal to refer to children as just ‘the child’ (genderless)
This is quantum physics in theory (incomprehensible unless you’re a hardore math simp) but in practice it is Black Magic (you have to sell your soul and sabity in order to perform it).
