“I presented one of my collections here,” she whispers. “The models came down from that middle bit, where the light is.”
She’s just given me another snippet to add to my library anthology.
For as long as I can remember, libraries have been the stages where my stories unfold. That imposing university library in England, for instance, in which I whiled away so many hours reading up on Dante, Boccaccio, and that medieval French writer I nearly dedicated my life to.
It’s been more than a decade and a half since I flashed my library card for the last time there. I recal—how could I forget?—the hush of the reading room, the chilly rabbit warrens of “book stacks” (open-access shelves) you could lose yourself in.
But my sharpest memory is of my friend Clare and the Marmite sandwiches she and I shared on the steps of that library on Saturday mornings. As we waited for her Colombian fiancé to cycle to meet us, we batted our dreams back and forth: Should we do doctorates once we’d finished our master’s theses? Or should we stop there, turn our backs on the siren call of the university library, and step out into the “real” world?
Clare stayed on. Happily for me, the world beyond that particular library turned out to be full of libraries, too.
In Nice, southern France, where I spent a sun-splashed year teaching English, I knew and loved a dark little library far off the beaten tourist track. It stood in a housing project where youths threaded their way through the gray towers on skateboards.
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