I am greatly entertained by Mistress Ruth Scurr’s new book John Aubrey: My Own Life. It contains 433 pages. My honoured friend Mr William Harvey warns me that I shall acquire an impostumation if I sit reading it much longer.
I am surprised that so much of it is already familiar to me. But I am completely possessed by the man and his English style. I fear I shall develop his stammer.
. . .
I proposed to Mr Hooke that the Royal Society might investigate how it is that printed writing can be both a man’s (Mr Aubrey’s) and a woman’s (Mistress Scurr’s) at the same time. He refused, saying, ‘No two bodies can occupy the same space!’ He has lent me thirty-five shillings in the past month, and now this fart.
. . .
Today at Joe’s coffee house Sir Blewbottle Harston told me that he doubted I would be able to “blogg” about Mistress Scurr’s book with my customary tediousness until I had stopped thinking, speaking and writing like it. I agreed with my good friend. I believe I shall need a week to recover my equipoise.
Next entry: Kittie’s story