What an odd experience I just had. At, of all places, the library.
I am a lifelong habitue of public and school libraries. There is nowhere outside of home where I'm as comfortable, where I feel so sure a sense of belonging. In fact I've been known to take it to extremes. There have been many weeks, and even some single days, when I've gone, before work, on my lunch hour, and after work, to as many as three and sometimes even four libraries. There's the NYPL branch on Second Avenue at Ninth Street and there's the Jefferson Market branch on Sixth Avenue. There's the university library. And there are the Queens branch libraries in Sunnyside and Woodside. I love them all (and don't even get me started on my love for librarians) and I haunt them as much as I can, frequently losing control and tottering out with an unwieldy pile of books taller than I am. I have a system at home where I keep piles of books from the various libraries separate so I don't mix them up and return them to the wrong place.
So this was unexpected. As I got ready to take my lunch break today, I felt a surge of panicky horror at how unbearably long I've gone without reading a book (earlier posts explain why) and decided that, goddamn it all, this has got to end. Even if it means fumbling around with these generic magnifying specs I got at the drugstore that are totally not right, and even if it means getting a headache from wearing totally not right reading glasses until I get some real ones prescribed, enough is enough. I have got to read a book. I went to the library.
And it felt strange. Awkward as all get-out, like dinner with an ex a month after the breakup. I was nervous, physically a little shaky even. And I couldn't decide what books to take out.
This is barely credible, but believe it: once I'd gathered up a stack of five or six for checkout, I felt a strange fear wash over me that no, these are too many books, I need to start slow here and build back up at a careful, steady pace. WTF?! This is not an athlete needing to recoup her strength after a physical injury--this is me needing to read after not being able to for over a month! It was so very weird, watching myself winnow down the pile to just two that felt somehow safe, not too challenging, and ultimately chosen for their brevity and big print. Oy oy oy that it should come to this.
There are three abiding loves in my life. Teresa. The struggle for a better world. And books. Let's face it, there's been a breach with one of them that apparently will take some time to heal.
Here's a happier postscript. While I was roaming the fiction stacks I noticed two books with bold titles on their spines, both of which included the words "coal camp." One was something like "War in the Coal Camp" and the other something similar. In thrall to my bizarre timidity I didn't pick them up, and I forgot to even write down their titles or author so I'm going to have to do some searches to see if I can find them, but my antennae stood straight up. I hope soon to post some thoughts here about how to find books to please a red reader; this was a reminder that they are indeed out there, and many are hidden in plain sight. At the library.
UPDATE: Here's the punchline. I got onto the train to head home, put on the drugstore glasses, opened the book that I'd picked for its slimness, and realized within the first two paragraphs that it's a book I've already read.
