I am in my college's library. There are rows and rows of endless books -- department store shelves of inventory, stocked, packed neatly and tightly. So many spines. Faces. Each one with its own little Social Security number, as if they are humans waiting patiently to be checked out into this world. And then checked in again, back into their silent graves, waiting. They must be opened to be brought to life; the only way they live is within us, through us, vicariously. The simple act of touching our eyes to their pages pulls them from the dead and their hearts begin to beat (our hearts, really).
Some are older than others, brittle and yellow to show their age. Their copyright proof of their birth, their own little birth certificate. I have no doubt that some have sat on these shelves for years without being checked out. "The Inner Workings of Telephones," "A Guide to Using Your Typewriter," "The Art of Letter-Writing," "How to Sew Your Own Clothing," "Collecting Flowers." Out of date. Obsolete.
Some were born mere months ago and are still new to their home, fresh off the hot press, out of the doctor’s hand: "Congratulations, Ms. Corbman -- it’s a beautiful piece of nonfiction!" “What should we call her?” “Well, I’m fond of 'Now That I Have Published a Book My Mother Will Be Happy!' Or how about 'I Can Finally Buy a Real Home With the Money From This Book!' Yes? Maybe not..."
As a new book, you have to figure out where you belong. Am I fiction? Non-fiction? Political Science? Psychology? For Children? You must deal with the high-school-lunchroom-shunning, the experimenting, the re-shelving. And then you might be sold...cast off the island in a “Books for $1” pile because the Library Heads have decided that they need space for more important books, such as "Becoming One With Your Smart Phone," "Something to Read While You’re Not On Your Phone," etc.
I could spend months in this library, sleeping on the couches, living off of hot chocolate and coffee, washing my face in the water fountain, and absorbing all the books. Well, maybe not all. One, or a few, a day. Smelling the books. Admiring the artful covers. Bathing under the ceiling’s fluorescent lights. Practicing being quiet as a mouse. Sleeping, then waking up to read something, and then sleeping some more. A library shut-in. There's an idea...
