My Dear, Sweet, Lovely Library

Some days, as I leave the library with a new stack of books clutched to my chest, I can’t help but feel like the character of a middle aged man, having just left a brothel. His unfettered joy bubbling up inside as he walks the street, passers-by oblivious to his previous actions or his private elation. Elation achieved, no less, from the women working the brothel, women whose services are tied to the concepts and images they represent, not to their authentic selves or personal substance.

It may be a bit shameful, but that is often the thought that flashes through my mind as I walk briskly from the library doors, books clutched to chest, private elation bubbling up inside. All the while thinking excitedly to myself: These compilations of text, all mine (for three whole weeks), I can smother myself in them, smell that print and paper smell, dive into them, embrace them, get completely lost in them.

It is a fabulous moment, a private gleeful sensation experienced right there in the open. Somehow that makes it feel all that much more decadent, like in borrowing books I am getting away with something devilishly sumptuous.

It’s a funny scene, one that always makes me chuckle a little. And the most peculiar detail of all is, of course, the fact that I, like the character of the middle aged man, am often not all that attached to what the specific content of my newly acquired book pile is. More often than not, that decadent gleeful sensation comes just from clutching the books to my chest and reveling in all that the experience holds. It amazes me: that people produced these books, that my library has them, that I can put them on hold from the comfort of my own living room couch, that I can borrow them for free (for free!), that I am allowed to leaf through these pages, staring at all the words that someone felt compelled to muster, and then to share. In its minutia I find it a wondrous experience.

I love my library, my own private word brothel. I am sad, at times, knowing that for whatever reason in this phase in my life I am not entirely committed to the content of the books that I checkout. For awhile I thought this might be problematic, something to examine or try and change. But I’m over that now, if books can bring me delight just by virtue of their very existence, and the library gives me unlimited access to this delight, then who am I to argue?

So thank you my dear, sweet, lovely library (and all you fabulous librarians who ensure its ongoing existence and smooth functioning), thank you for all the joy you bring, and for all the words you hold, care for, and ever so graciously share with me.