When I became a librarian, something most unexpected happened. I became estranged from my books. Which is surprising, given the envy most acquaintances express vis-à-vis their perception of my primary duty, which they universally believe to be, as they so often express in our conversations: passing countless hours with my feet up on the desk, casually perusing the latest Twilight or Hunger Games installment, a bowl of bonbons by my side.
It's the truth. An actual question I was asked on a recent date began something like this: “So, a librarian, that’s pretty neat. You just sit around all day and read books then?” Not wanting to shatter her image of my privileged lifestyle, a key to securing any chance of making it past the dessert course, I glanced across the table, did my best Clint Eastwood squint, and replied, “Yes, that’s what I do.” This, I followed with a quick, “Would you please pass the pepper?”
As you can see, my spoken eloquence is unrivaled, and it remains a great mystery to all that I am single. However the greater mystery still is what happened to the luminous relationship I once shared with my books.
It’s not that my books have left me, or I them. We still coexist in our home, shuffling by one another throughout the day with pining looks and knowing gazes.
Some have been with me a long time, and I keep these on bookshelves. Then there are the ones that came into my life since I entered the world of librarianship. These I haven’t yet read, and so I place them in piles on the floor. This is my system. Remember, I am a librarian.
So the books and I, we are still together, but we no longer communicate on an intimate level. I don’t find myself in bed late at night, sensually turning my books’ pages as they slowly reveal to me their innermost secrets, nor do I awaken to find my books draped comfortably, lovingly, across my naked, beating chest. Ahh, you say, I know what he’s getting at here: The book is passé and he’s using his e-reader!
Not exactly. This is not another one of those gushy laments eulogizing the passing of books. You know, the one that usually starts something like: Friends and loved ones, we are gathered here today to mourn the passing of our dear books. Back in the '80s, books abounded and pleasure was plentiful .....
No, no, the book isn’t dead yet. Far from it. It’s that since becoming a librarian I am just so busy reading professional books and materials that I don’t have time for any of my books – the fiction that sweeps me away with its intrigue and wows me with its literary finesse.
This is not something my books want to hear. They think it’s an excuse. I can tell from the passive-aggressive vibes they often give off when I glide by as they await my consideration, unjustly deprived of my affections. He’s being selfish. It’s always about him and his needs.
And the betrayal, by my own admission, runs even deeper than they know. You see, when I read materials for work, I am sure to do it outside the view of my books. Because if they saw me, then they would know, and next thing you know a private investigator is snapping my picture from behind a bush as I try to steal a few moments alone with the latest issue of Library Journal at the corner café.
So my books, you see, need some attention. And I just can’t give it to them right now. Fortunately, I am a librarian, and so I know a thing or two about loaning books. So come on over sometime. I’ll set you up with a borrower’s card and you can check out a few books and take them home with you, while I hide in the spare bedroom tenderly opening up tomes on current copyright trends, or sit in my car out in the driveway to steal delicate glimpses into the latest interlibrary loan initiatives.
Now I am aware that to some, this whole arrangement may seem a bit promiscuous, but in the world of librarianship we tend to look at this type of affair as a simple matter of resource-sharing.
Michael English is the access services librarian at Salisbury University.
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