Taking talking leaves
After nearly four centuries, Harvard has attics full of curios and treasures. Among them are the whimsical, the earnest, and the odd: Emily Dickinson’s writing desk, Houdini’s handcuffs, a T.S. Eliot bowler, and drawers of fish, bone, and botany specimens that date back to the 18th century. Then there are those Harvard curios that are fleeting and ephemeral and free: principally the fallen leaves that every autumn tourists and passers-by tuck into pockets and bags as mementos of a place, Harvard Yard, that shimmers with meaning and history. This pastime proves again that — despite a veneer of civilization — humankind holds in its core a sense of magic in the leaves, sticks, shells, and stones of the outside world: that such totems will give us power, will make memory linger, and will link us to gods of nature long forgotten. Last week, a tourist paused to pick up a large leaf...