I once walked into a small Southern town that had more libraries than churches. There were three or four of them on each street. Occasionally I’d mistake one for a small house, then see the letters for Brautigan or Borges or Baldwin or Brontë adorning the entrance. Their parking lots were full of bicycles and mopeds, and out back, beneath a tarp, people lay on their backs, barefoot, books covering their faces like masks.
I approached the main branch downtown, where a librarian greeted me at the door.
“Welcome,” she said.
It was then that I knew I’d never leave.
I approached the main branch downtown, where a librarian greeted me at the door.
“Welcome,” she said.
It was then that I knew I’d never leave.
