Library of Unrequited Love by Sophie Divry

don’t catch flies with vinegar, as my mother would say. Poor woman: she’s never read a book in her life, but on that subject she’s a walking encyclopedia. And if I’d listened to her, I would have kept a closer eye on the Black Death and the radioactive fallout from the nuclear power station. She did warn me, my mother. Watch out, she said. One never does watch out enough. You trust people, you go with the flow, you drop off to sleep, and oops, there you are in a basement all night. I’m teasing you. You’re lucky it was a week night, or you might have spent the whole weekend in here, starving to death. Oh, here’s my watch. Excuse me, I have to do a few things, we’ll be opening soon. It’s not all set up yet. The trolleys have to be emptied, it all has to look neat and tidy. Even if, between ourselves, most people have no idea of all I’ve been telling you, what goes on here. Most readers don’t come for the good of their souls. Some of them don’t come to borrow books, or to work, not even to read …No, don’t pretend you don’t know, it happens at any age: I mean picking people up. No, don’t look so surprised, you hypocrite. I’m not criticizing you. It’s a game two can play, women are just as likely to be doing it as men. I don’t know what your method is. But I’ve seen all sorts of tactics. I’ve seen people collect a pile of books and leave them all over a table to give an idea of their taste and their personality, and wait to see what kind of fish will bite. I’ve seen others who are more daring – they make a point of ostentatiously reading sex manuals. Shelfmark 306.7, sure-fire magnet for boys, and the people who work here aren’t made of stone. I know colleagues who’ve found notes on the desk, like: “I’m sitting in the third row down, and I’ll buy you a coffee if you can get a break.” Then there are the real prima donnas, who turn up in skimpy tops and short skirts even when the air conditioning is on, they jump up every ten minutes, they walk between the bookshelves, click-clack with their heels, wiggling their bottoms, the boys opposite are beside themselves, they try to concentrate, but no, it’s just impossible. So they shoot glancesfrom one table to another, they get up, go out for a smoke and there you are. Well, people have to have a bit of fun. Because books in themselves aren’t sexy, they’re silent, cold, off-putting. At night, when the library’s empty, it’s really scary. Last night you were scared, weren’t you, and cold, well of course, that’s normal. Be honest, these dreaded books impress us, don’t they? Even me, do you think I’ve got things under control here? Not at all, I’m their slave. If they’re in the wrong order, they start shouting at me, and I have to hurry along, like a servant, to put them right, get them into the proper shelf. But I’m free, aren’t I, to do what I like? If I wanted to push a pile of books over, there’s nothing to stop me. Look here we go … just let me get a life, why don’t you? … O.K., O.K., it wasn’t such a great idea, sorry. I can’t stand it. Just seeing them all over the floor … Help me pick them up, I don’t know what came over me then. I get these funny impulses sometimes. One day for instance, in the lavatories, I saw this graffiti:
Young man would like to meet young woman who admires Critique of Pure Reason for Kantian adventure
. There was even a mobilephone number. Now don’t tell the Librarian, but I wrote underneath,
Mature woman would like to meet young man who admires Critique of Dialectical Reason for Sartrean adventure
. Obviously, not everyone would get it. And nobody ever replied. Admittedly, I didn’t dare put my phone number. But I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a bit of fun too, instead of watching the