The Walrus and The Carpenter--Lewis Carroll
The magazine rack held out of date magazines screaming to be bought, as Dinah walked out of the bright April day through the automatic doors, her skin slightly flushed from the heat of the sun. She combed her fingers through her copper-toned hair that was tangled from driving with the windows down; school was just letting out and the high schoolers were filing into the library for the after school program, better known as supervised unsupervision. She walked over the to wall of books and gingerly scanned the authors and neatly labeled sections as she listened to the conversation of the gray haired ladies to her right, who were pouring through pop-Psychology books from the 1970's and grab bags of 6 romance books for a dollar.
Libraries were like sanctuaries, in them Dinah found God and creativity and solace. The quiet reverence engulfed her like an ocean, the current of words swirling around her and tickling her ears and her eyes; pulling her deeper into the smells of the packed shelves and the creases of thoughts. Removing books from the shelf and taking deep breaths of the pages, the aromas of the decades old glue and binding, dust and ink, wafted with each turn of the page and felt like home. Dinah smiled as she felt herself relax.
All good things, like all bad things, pass away in time; Toby a bleach-blonde man-boy of about 25 entered the foyer and brought with him the stench of the ash tray between the columns of the porch, with a confident stride he made his way over to the shelves on the wall and tucked his still smoking, but recently extinguished cigarette behind his ear. His pungent odor quickly drove away the pleasant smell of aged books and turned Dinah's stomach. The women on her right quickly cast their disapproving looks to the boy who, after some scrutiny, had a slight Asian build and wore a messy fu-manchu made mostly of stubble.
Dinah rolled her eyes and pondered if the boy-man--boy had a clue that he was so intrusive. She wondered about stereotypes while watching him reach around her for a newly bound copy of a biography of Warren Buffet. She shook off the urge to stare at him further when he pulled the chunky book for the shelf, carried it to the sci-fi section, scooted the books out of the way, shoved the book in between two star-trek paperbacks, and stepped back to admire his handy work, then quickly scanned the shelves as though he was looking for something else that had been misplaced.
Dinah retrieved a few misfit books from the shelves, opened them at a near-half-point and read a few sentences and paragraphs, careful to replace the book back in the exact slot it once occupied. She had since childhood, prided herself of her spy like qualities of rummaging and replacing things with such precision as to leave no trace whatsoever. Choosing random titles Dinah and Toby quickly worked their way to the end of the wall, to the coveted shelf bearing two almost synonymous labels: literature and religion.
Dinah scanned the books, faith for the unbelievers; 360 Tao; A History of Zen; The Be ((Happy)) Attitudes. Halfway between the two sections, a book caught her eye. She reached for the pale book and met a hand. Their paths had collided, or so they thought. The boy flashed the smile showing his slightly tobacco stained teeth and continued to reach for the copy of the Medieval Women's Literature and laughed. "Sorry were you reaching for this?" he asked with a slight twinkle in his eye as he handed her the oddly shaped glossy white book. "No," she replied, handing the book back to him, "I was reaching for The Prophet." She reached over her head to pull down the book with the yellowing jacket, Toby raised his eyebrows and smiled; "interesting," he said out loud, shrugged, reshelved the Women's Literature volume, and disappeared around the corner whistling a happy tune.
Libraries were like sanctuaries, in them Dinah found God and creativity and solace. The quiet reverence engulfed her like an ocean, the current of words swirling around her and tickling her ears and her eyes; pulling her deeper into the smells of the packed shelves and the creases of thoughts. Removing books from the shelf and taking deep breaths of the pages, the aromas of the decades old glue and binding, dust and ink, wafted with each turn of the page and felt like home. Dinah smiled as she felt herself relax.
All good things, like all bad things, pass away in time; Toby a bleach-blonde man-boy of about 25 entered the foyer and brought with him the stench of the ash tray between the columns of the porch, with a confident stride he made his way over to the shelves on the wall and tucked his still smoking, but recently extinguished cigarette behind his ear. His pungent odor quickly drove away the pleasant smell of aged books and turned Dinah's stomach. The women on her right quickly cast their disapproving looks to the boy who, after some scrutiny, had a slight Asian build and wore a messy fu-manchu made mostly of stubble.
Dinah rolled her eyes and pondered if the boy-man--boy had a clue that he was so intrusive. She wondered about stereotypes while watching him reach around her for a newly bound copy of a biography of Warren Buffet. She shook off the urge to stare at him further when he pulled the chunky book for the shelf, carried it to the sci-fi section, scooted the books out of the way, shoved the book in between two star-trek paperbacks, and stepped back to admire his handy work, then quickly scanned the shelves as though he was looking for something else that had been misplaced.
Dinah retrieved a few misfit books from the shelves, opened them at a near-half-point and read a few sentences and paragraphs, careful to replace the book back in the exact slot it once occupied. She had since childhood, prided herself of her spy like qualities of rummaging and replacing things with such precision as to leave no trace whatsoever. Choosing random titles Dinah and Toby quickly worked their way to the end of the wall, to the coveted shelf bearing two almost synonymous labels: literature and religion.
Dinah scanned the books, faith for the unbelievers; 360 Tao; A History of Zen; The Be ((Happy)) Attitudes. Halfway between the two sections, a book caught her eye. She reached for the pale book and met a hand. Their paths had collided, or so they thought. The boy flashed the smile showing his slightly tobacco stained teeth and continued to reach for the copy of the Medieval Women's Literature and laughed. "Sorry were you reaching for this?" he asked with a slight twinkle in his eye as he handed her the oddly shaped glossy white book. "No," she replied, handing the book back to him, "I was reaching for The Prophet." She reached over her head to pull down the book with the yellowing jacket, Toby raised his eyebrows and smiled; "interesting," he said out loud, shrugged, reshelved the Women's Literature volume, and disappeared around the corner whistling a happy tune.
