Recommended Books
Recommended Books
Which books? That was the question. As he sat at a library desk, encased in an individual brown shell like a bee in a wooden hive, he wondered which books he needed. They faced him, honeyed rows of them, side-by-side, ordered, numbered, catalogued, cross-referenced. Where should one begin? He looked down. He had placed the reading list in front of him: "Recommended Books". At least that was a start, he thought. He had come to the library with a sense of purpose, an air of determination in his quiet vaulting up the steps; he had even chosen this particular desk so he could see all these books, as if preparing to receive some invisibly transferred message. Sitting in this specific enclosure also allowed him a view of the stairs, the entire floor. When I get bored, he thought (as he knew he would), I can just let my mind wander. Then there was the Librarian; the young one he had seen the day before, the one who had looked appealing in her red dress. Had he come here for her too? His thoughts returned to the interior of his honeycomb. Which books? He had found only three of those on the list. Not especially promising: hardcovers, plain, yellow, blue. Uninspiring. Who would want to take such unattractive volumes from the shelf? But then it wasn't the cover that counted. He thought of the girl. Maybe she looked nice in her red dress, but what did that mean? He couldn’t judge her on that alone. An old lady climbed up to his floor, her breathing pained, laboured. The lift was broken and she had struggled up here in search of what? He would watch her to see where she went, to gain some insight into her motivation. One book lay open in front of him and absentmindedly he tried to read. The words passed anonymously before him, meaning nothing. Why did he always find it so difficult to read in public libraries? Other thoughts perhaps. The girl. Or being surrounded by so many shelves, all asking the same question - "which books?" - each volume begging to be read. No sign of the Librarian, but the old lady had progressed to his section, to the literature. An old school teacher perhaps, or merely a lonely old woman trying to make a new discovery at this late stage in her life. Surely discoveries were always possible. He looked down at his book prepared to make his own, to divine something new, something important; he was ready but nothing came. Today the words might just as well have not been there. He pushed the first volume aside and looked at the second. Only three from the list. A white clock by the stairwell. He had not been here long and already he wondered why he was bothering, what he was trying to achieve. The old lady took down a book and made her way to a chair. He might ask her a question, following a vague sensation that she might be able to offer insight. What is she reading anyway? In the corner of his eye he saw the Librarian. Not in red today, but otherwise as he recalled her. Perhaps more attractive. "Isn't she lovely, the Mistress?" Where did that come from? He glanced at the old lady; for a moment he almost felt as if she had whispered the words to him from her chair. "Isn't she lovely, the Mistress?" He looked at the Librarian arranging books on a trolley. And those words; where did they come from? On his desk the second book was still closed; they had not come from there. He searched his memory for the origin of this fugitive phrase. "Isn't she lovely…" The Librarian bending down, oblivious, unconcerned, absorbed in her work. Suddenly he thought of Betjeman. "Isn't she lovely…" He stood up and walked toward the shelves. The old lady looked up from her book. So, he thought, it’s your turn to watch. And all the while conscious of the presence of the young Librarian, the attractive girl, the Mistress. B. He looked along shelves. Blake, not him; Browning, a fine Romance there. The old lady turned again to her book; he thought of the three on his desk, the ones he should be working from. Ah, Betjeman. Returning to his seat he noticed the Librarian gone. Where? The trolley was still there. Downstairs no doubt, out of his view. Back to the honeycomb with another book, collecting like a bee. What honey was he trying to make then? "Isn't she lovely…" His eye ran down the index; he would not be happy until he had discovered the poem. As he scanned, his mind was aware of the old lady, the shelves, the clock on the wall. Were they there even when he was no longer looking at them? The eye of the beholder perhaps; but that was all philosophy anyway. "Isn’t…" The phrase returned in his mind but he was unable to find it. He checked again. There was a sound: the old lady stood up and walked towards the shelves with her book. Almost involuntarily he watched her replace the book and totter to the stairs. So, she was not taking it out with her. He checked his watch. He expected the Librarian to appear; where was she when she should be here, attending the trolley? Back to the index; perhaps he expected the phrase to have appeared, miraculously implanted by the old lady’s departure. "Isn't she lovely, the Mistress…" He could not find it. Perhaps it was not Betjeman after all; perhaps it was someone else. He began flicking through, studying the poems: could the index have been that much at fault? Then the sight of his other books - the second one still unopened - arrested his search. He rose again and began walking to the shelves. At the top of the stairs the Librarian suddenly appeared. "Excuse me Miss, but I'm looking for poem!" How could he ask her for assistance? B. Blake, Browning. There, suddenly, another Betjeman volume. He looked at the one in his hand: a different edition. Was this the book the old lady had been looking at? He took it down. "Isn’t…" The Librarian was back at trolley, now taking armfuls of books for re-shelving. "Isn't she lovely, the Mistress, with her wide apart grey green eyes…" Then suddenly, as he read, she was there at his side. B. Blake, Browning. What should he do? He read on conscious of both her and the poem. One by one, her books went back. To say something: "This poem…" But she was gone. He finished reading. He had found his poem, the poem he had wanted to read. The books on the desk: if only it were that easy. And to the old lady he would have said: "Isn't she lovely, the Mistress." Perhaps the woman had been reading the poem aloud; that was why heard it. He put the book back; I shall read it again, he thought. The Librarian was gone and he went back to his seat. What had she thought, he wondered as he opened his second book, standing so close to him, re-shelving like that. Probably her mind had been far away; surely there could be no place in there for him, not in the same way as he thought of her. The second uninspiring volume lay open, uninvitingly. "Isn't she lovely…" Perhaps the old lady knew, that was why he had had the vague desire to speak to her. Or this book, here in front of him; if only he were prepared to read, to try. Was this real involvement after all? The white clock; time and restlessness. He looked up. Those shelves - "which book?" All was quiet, no one moved. As a child, libraries had been a magic place of discovery. He thought of the old lady and wondered if there were a difference in age after all. Perhaps not. "Isn't she lovely, the Mistress…" There he had found something. He looked at his watch. The third book would have to stay unopened, he could not attempt it now. As he gathered up this things, he wondered where all his enthusiasm had gone; lost somewhere between the desk and the shelves, between the Librarian and the old lady. He stood. Should he leave those books there, those plain volumes? "Isn't she lovely…" He didn't feel like reading that again and cursed vaguely the green carpet, the shelving, the absence of a lift which made old ladies attack the stairs. He walked past the shelves all asking "which books?" B: Betjeman, Blake, Browning…