ELIA once wrote of books that are not books at all—volumes like railway time‐tables, bound catalogues and so forth. In a different mood I am sure he might have written delightfully about the dreams and visions, even the stories and dramas, which such productions can inspire. Should not a railway time‐table be as evocative as a good map to the map‐lover? I know a husband and wife, enthusiasts for the wilder areas of their native land but by circumstance exiled for years in India, who spend hours over maps of Scotland, under the spell of reminiscence and of untrammelled anticipation. A railway time‐table might, to those with a knowledge of the geography and railway systems of the country, serve much the same purpose. The train shown as leaving Glasgow's Buchanan Street Station for Inverness at such and such a time can bear my dreams with it—even if my body must be in the office.
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