Fletcher Parkway, College Avenue.
âOf course!â
I sat up so fast I nearly changed lanes, coming close to hitting a pest patrol truck beside me. Shrugging an apology, Ifiltered through the traffic toward the exit. Within moments I was swallowed up by the campus of San Diego State University with parking structures on one side and hillside classrooms on the other.
Despite the advances the Internet had made over the last few years for anyone doing serious research, cyberspace still couldnât hold a candle to a determined, old-fashioned research librarian. My shower, nap, and room service would have to wait.
I descended the curved stairway into the subterranean atrium of San Diego State University library. Sunlight through the dome cast geometric shadows on the steps.
Approaching the circulation counter, I interrupted a coed in pigtails for directions to the research library. She glanced up from a copy of Schopenhauerâs The World as Will and Representation, cracked her gum, and pointed down a wide passageway.
The underground hallway led to the heart of the facility, several storiesâ worth of books and periodicals. To get there, I passed a row of glass cases featuring Indian artifacts from archaeological digs in Old Town, early San Diego.
The displays might as well have been mermaid sirens calling to me. There was no way I could walk by them without stopping to read the information cards.
I loved this stuff.
I breathed in the surroundingsâthe displays, the carpets, the photos, the books, the air-conditioning. This was my turf. This was where I felt most at home.
Most people donât understand what a library does for me and Iâve given up trying to explain it to them. All I know is that I feel energized when Iâm in one. My pulse quickens when I walkthrough the stacks. I feel like an explorer surveying an uncharted shore. Lost worlds are here waiting to be discovered. Ancient worlds; once glorious, now crumbled. Future worlds; no more substantial than the numbers or ideas or words of those who dream them. Mythical worlds. Worlds of limitless dimensions.
Libraries are medieval forests masking opportunity and danger; every aisle is a path, every catalog reference a clue to the location of the Holy Grail. It is here that I become privy to the sacred songs of kings and the ballads of rogues. Here are tales of life-and-death struggles of other wayfarers as they battle personal dragons and woo fair maidens.
Walking down this hallway, I am a knight entering the forest in search of truthâthe truth about Myles Shepherd and that carnival ride of sensations in his office; the truth about his involvement in the plot to assassinate the president; the truth about his death.
Having reached the research library, I went in.
âGrant Austin!â
My name echoed through the cavernous room. Every head in the library turned and looked at me.
The surprising thing about the outburst was that it prompted no immediate shushing from the library staff. For good reason. It was the reference librarian who was making all the noise.
She was a short, middle-aged woman wearing a long-sleeved white blouse and a manâs black tie. Like a teenybopper catching sight of a rock star, she rounded the end of the counter and came toward me, her eyes electrified. âI canât believe itâs actually you!â she gushed. âThis is such an honor, Mr. Austin! Such an honor!â She rose up and down on her tiptoes as she spoke, her interlaced fingers punctuating every syllable.
A pleated black skirt, white socks, and black patent-leather shoes completed her retro fashion statement. She didnât have the knees for it.
Before I could reply to her boisterous greeting, her expression clouded over. âOh . . . please tell me youâre not here for a signing!â she cried. âPlease, please, please donât tell me that! Because if you are . . . well, theyâre
âOf course!â
I sat up so fast I nearly changed lanes, coming close to hitting a pest patrol truck beside me. Shrugging an apology, Ifiltered through the traffic toward the exit. Within moments I was swallowed up by the campus of San Diego State University with parking structures on one side and hillside classrooms on the other.
Despite the advances the Internet had made over the last few years for anyone doing serious research, cyberspace still couldnât hold a candle to a determined, old-fashioned research librarian. My shower, nap, and room service would have to wait.
I descended the curved stairway into the subterranean atrium of San Diego State University library. Sunlight through the dome cast geometric shadows on the steps.
Approaching the circulation counter, I interrupted a coed in pigtails for directions to the research library. She glanced up from a copy of Schopenhauerâs The World as Will and Representation, cracked her gum, and pointed down a wide passageway.
The underground hallway led to the heart of the facility, several storiesâ worth of books and periodicals. To get there, I passed a row of glass cases featuring Indian artifacts from archaeological digs in Old Town, early San Diego.
The displays might as well have been mermaid sirens calling to me. There was no way I could walk by them without stopping to read the information cards.
I loved this stuff.
I breathed in the surroundingsâthe displays, the carpets, the photos, the books, the air-conditioning. This was my turf. This was where I felt most at home.
Most people donât understand what a library does for me and Iâve given up trying to explain it to them. All I know is that I feel energized when Iâm in one. My pulse quickens when I walkthrough the stacks. I feel like an explorer surveying an uncharted shore. Lost worlds are here waiting to be discovered. Ancient worlds; once glorious, now crumbled. Future worlds; no more substantial than the numbers or ideas or words of those who dream them. Mythical worlds. Worlds of limitless dimensions.
Libraries are medieval forests masking opportunity and danger; every aisle is a path, every catalog reference a clue to the location of the Holy Grail. It is here that I become privy to the sacred songs of kings and the ballads of rogues. Here are tales of life-and-death struggles of other wayfarers as they battle personal dragons and woo fair maidens.
Walking down this hallway, I am a knight entering the forest in search of truthâthe truth about Myles Shepherd and that carnival ride of sensations in his office; the truth about his involvement in the plot to assassinate the president; the truth about his death.
Having reached the research library, I went in.
âGrant Austin!â
My name echoed through the cavernous room. Every head in the library turned and looked at me.
The surprising thing about the outburst was that it prompted no immediate shushing from the library staff. For good reason. It was the reference librarian who was making all the noise.
She was a short, middle-aged woman wearing a long-sleeved white blouse and a manâs black tie. Like a teenybopper catching sight of a rock star, she rounded the end of the counter and came toward me, her eyes electrified. âI canât believe itâs actually you!â she gushed. âThis is such an honor, Mr. Austin! Such an honor!â She rose up and down on her tiptoes as she spoke, her interlaced fingers punctuating every syllable.
A pleated black skirt, white socks, and black patent-leather shoes completed her retro fashion statement. She didnât have the knees for it.
Before I could reply to her boisterous greeting, her expression clouded over. âOh . . . please tell me youâre not here for a signing!â she cried. âPlease, please, please donât tell me that! Because if you are . . . well, theyâre
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