I was most deeply infatuated with an English Literature student, bookish like me, we haunted the library (which had ghosts enough, being constructed over the buried remains of the college masters stretching back three hundred years). She had an unsure gait and wore sensible jumpers. We had no friends in common and never spoke. I thought that she stared at me in the library once. Quigg's title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a Margravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of the dilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become a reigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a restaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave him a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house bequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other have him the restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg, the restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave - the Caliph - the Prince of Bohemia - going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious, the inexplicable, the recondite.I think that she wondered what I was staring at. I tilted my copy of Joyce so that the spine was prominent. I doubt that she could have seen all the way across the dusky room. In my desperate attempts to attract feminine attention I ruminated my way through a lot of wonderful literature, some of which I managed to digest. I also learnt a little physics. Enough to ask intelligent questions, but not enough to answer them. After three years of growing disillusionment I came away with a first class degree and the realisation that, for the preceding twenty years, my priorities and whole world-view had been entirely mistaken. That was the extent of my revelation.