donât catch flies with vinegar, as my mother would say. Poor woman: sheâs never read a book in her life, but on that subject sheâs a walking encyclopedia. And if Iâd 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. Iâm teasing you. Youâre lucky it was a week night, or you might have spent the whole weekend in here, starving to death. Oh, hereâs my watch. Excuse me, I have to do a few things, weâll be opening soon. Itâs 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 Iâve been telling you, what goes on here. Most readers donât come for the good of their souls. Some of them donât come to borrow books, or to work, not even to read â¦No, donât pretend you donât know, it happens at any age: I mean picking people up. No, donât look so surprised, you hypocrite. Iâm not criticizing you. Itâs a game two can play, women are just as likely to be doing it as men. I donât know what your method is. But Iâve seen all sorts of tactics. Iâve 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. Iâve seen others who are more daring â they make a point of ostentatiously reading sex manuals. Shelfmark 306.7, sure-fire magnet for boys, and the people who work here arenât made of stone. I know colleagues whoâve found notes on the desk, like: âIâm sitting in the third row down, and Iâll buy you a coffee if you can get a break.â 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, itâs 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 arenât sexy, theyâre silent, cold, off-putting. At night, when the libraryâs empty, itâs really scary. Last night you were scared, werenât you, and cold, well of course, thatâs normal. Be honest, these dreaded books impress us, donât they? Even me, do you think Iâve got things under control here? Not at all, Iâm their slave. If theyâre 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 Iâm free, arenât I, to do what I like? If I wanted to push a pile of books over, thereâs nothing to stop me. Look here we go ⦠just let me get a life, why donât you? ⦠O.K., O.K., it wasnât such a great idea, sorry. I canât stand it. Just seeing them all over the floor ⦠Help me pick them up, I donât 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 donât 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 didnât dare put my phone number. But I donât see why I shouldnât have a bit of fun too, instead of watching the
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