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Idyllic City Libraries
Jan. 3rd, 2006 08:33 amIn a branch of the New York Public Library on Amsterdam and 92nd, I was reading over the draft of my novel at an old, long wooden table. Although it had no public restroom, I loved it in there. The librarians at the checkout desk kept asking people – with real interest -- how they had liked the books that they were returning. The answers came back: fantastic. nailbitey. These people loved books. The table had fine old chairs, graceful and strong.
At the next table over, same length, same age, same chairs, a grey-haired man joined a white-haired man. They sat across from each other and had quiet but animated conversation. When they were talking passionately about plays and playwrights, I was trying to listen, but got caught. They both looked my way, laughed. One of them gestured me over – I could join them! I smiled and pointed to my work, and he was joking, but it made me feel welcomed, part of life there, in my brown shirt and new pin-striped skirt with the tight ruffled bottom that I had hoisted up over my knees to give me plenty of room.
Later, when the subway was back, I worked twice in the beautiful Rose Reading Room at the main branch of the library, on 42nd street, next to Bryant Park, where they had set up an ice skating rink. (After I climbed the stairs from the subway, I looked around, a little puzzled, and a homeless man, in a tone sure to please, said, "Ice rink," and pointed me where I hadn't even known to want to go.) In the reading room, with its gold lamp shades and high ceilings with fat and proud cherubs and painted blue skies, one evening I saw the real clouds change color through the arched, grilled windows over the bookshelves as the sun went down. I could look up from my work to see the beautiful faces of many studious readers, writers, and people at rest. Their smiles across the tables were beautific. It was like looking at the Fra Angelico paintings, which I loved. Their faces were absorbed, engaged, calming and calm.
In the map room, I saw a brass globe from 1510, one of the earliest remaining that showed the North and South American continents.
At the next table over, same length, same age, same chairs, a grey-haired man joined a white-haired man. They sat across from each other and had quiet but animated conversation. When they were talking passionately about plays and playwrights, I was trying to listen, but got caught. They both looked my way, laughed. One of them gestured me over – I could join them! I smiled and pointed to my work, and he was joking, but it made me feel welcomed, part of life there, in my brown shirt and new pin-striped skirt with the tight ruffled bottom that I had hoisted up over my knees to give me plenty of room.
Later, when the subway was back, I worked twice in the beautiful Rose Reading Room at the main branch of the library, on 42nd street, next to Bryant Park, where they had set up an ice skating rink. (After I climbed the stairs from the subway, I looked around, a little puzzled, and a homeless man, in a tone sure to please, said, "Ice rink," and pointed me where I hadn't even known to want to go.) In the reading room, with its gold lamp shades and high ceilings with fat and proud cherubs and painted blue skies, one evening I saw the real clouds change color through the arched, grilled windows over the bookshelves as the sun went down. I could look up from my work to see the beautiful faces of many studious readers, writers, and people at rest. Their smiles across the tables were beautific. It was like looking at the Fra Angelico paintings, which I loved. Their faces were absorbed, engaged, calming and calm.
In the map room, I saw a brass globe from 1510, one of the earliest remaining that showed the North and South American continents.
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