The door has no lock
It is warm to the touch
Warm and kempt and polished with hand-oil
The books sip dusklight
And drink heavy from the lamps
They are ready for a banquet
That makes tables groan in protest
There are breaths
As loud as engines
Bells, as loud as shot
Furious, a ticking clock
Is small and slow here
Its arms heavy with perfume
The smoke of old dreams
Turning into something else
A shop-worn place
Of well-used lives
Weeded of vanity
By a librarian that knows his work.
Librarians are over thinkers.
That is, after all, how we make our living. We are also not known for confidence, or the ability to keep things in perspective.
As a librarian, I’ve done a few articles interviewing people about their work. It’s always fascinating. Everybody’s got a story. If you can’t see that, if you can’t connect, that’s your problem.
Comedians get paid to do that, when you think about it. They get paid to connect with people. Laughter, in and of itself, is a connection with the people in the crowd. I’ve listened to hundreds of hours of standup and interviews with comedians. They’re interesting people. They love to talk. Interviewing one should be really easy. Continue reading
It is not funny that a man should be killed, but it is sometimes funny that a man should be killed for so little…
– Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of Murder
In Cold Blood is one of the best books I’ve ever read.
I got the audio book from my library yesterday. I am just beginning, but I am already hooked. It’s one of those books you can’t put down.
The story, as you might already know, is about a murder. Specifically, the murder of four people, the four brutal members of the Clutter family in unassuming Holcomb, Kansas.
That is not a spoiler. They tell you right on the cover.
Nobody would ever think of In Cold Blood as a mystery, but that’s really what Capote has crafted here. In a traditional mystery, a reader doesn’t really know if the mystery will be solved, who is going to die, that sort of thing. But In Cold Blood is not that, and never claimed to be that. Instead, Capote is relying on something else.
The suspense that the book created in a single word: why? Continue reading
On the shelves of any library, if it’s big enough, you’ll find things called jeremiads.
This term comes from the biblical Book of Jeremiah. In it, the titular prophet lamented the state of Israelite society, and warned of its imminent downfall.
Today, a jeremiad is a prolonged lamentation, or complaint about society, the literary version of an old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn. Such writings rarely have anything useful to say. They can say the same thing, over and over, and people will read them because they confirm their biases. Rarely are they clever, teach anything, or make you reflect.
One style of jeremiad that all librarians seem to ascribe is the profound observation that ‘people don’t read anymore.’ It’s not just the librarians that say this either. Social commentators of all stripes seem to think that Americans are becoming stupider simply because of the fact that people are too dumb, lazy, or screen obsessed to actually read something. Continue reading
Manhattan is a great place to be in the springtime.
Walk out of the subway on to 42nd. It’s only a block to you destination, of course; you couldn’t come to New York and not see the library. You can see the lions from down the street.
Past the arches you walk, and the place opens up. It’s beautiful. The walls are painted with murals, the ceilings painted with clouds. There’s marble everywhere. Woodwork is everywhere. In the reading rooms, up the stairs worn smooth by centuries, they’ve got pieces like Toledo enamel suspended so high above you it might as well be in the sky.
The true heart of the collection is beneath your feet. It’s dug in many stories beneath the surface. That’s where the beating heart of the collection is housed. 15 million items.
It’s as fine a temple as ever has been built, and it’s built to awe.
How does somebody build something so incredible? It’s hard to even wrap your head around that question. Where does one even begin?
Now, with that in mind, I want you to look a little more closely at something.
Look at the wall. Really look at it. What do you see? Continue reading
Raymond Chandler was not the most prolific of writers. He only started publishing in his forties, after losing a job in the oil industry thanks to the perils of being an artist, which are eerily similar to being a drunk.
He remains, however, one of the most brilliant writers of the 20th Century. The iconic private detective Phillip Marlowe was his creation; anytime you see a private detective in a trench coat, talking about ‘dames,’ and drinking, you’re looking at the cultural contribution of Mr. Chandler.
His taste in food, much like his writing, were simple and direct. ‘Cooked well and fast’ were his prerogatives. Every scrap of his writing reads that way, spiced with the acerbic wit that made Marlowe famous. Continue reading
A book about magic…
Suzanne Clark is one of the best writers I have ever read.
She can build worlds, write dialog, and build plot in ways that seem absolutely effortless. I admire her wholeheartedly. Continue reading
Here he comes
All the ifs and hows
Not a sound
Reaches my ears Continue reading
I am in a H.P. Lovecraft book club.
We meet every Sunday we can, when I should be in church.
There are nineteen poems that never existed
Nor will they ever exist
They are locked between pages
In a library of never were
Shelved with forgotten thoughts
You can shout silently all you like
But you’ll never read them
Of course, you know this
And you ache anyway.