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The Librarian, Twenty Years Later, in a More Public Place Pinched is the only way to describe her mouth waist sensibilities She has long since lost track of what she is doing who she is talking to She no longer quite hears the same questions, day after day Most of the answers posted clearly right under her desk No, there is no section for poetry, just 113 in the Dewey Decimal system, 113.2 for anthologies. She doesn’t explain it any more, just takes you to the spot. Creased, sharply is the only way to describe her You know better, of course. You see right through her -- God help her, she's not that complex. Her origins are unclear, but the story is the same. You can see, decades ago, the failed idealism, the lost crusader, the hopeless belief that books really matter.... You can see, behind that tight irritation, the wide range of reading material: Kant, Hobbes, the Zohar Umberto Eco the Marquis de Sade You can see her wrapped around Forester, Whitman the hooves and cunts of Sharon Olds in a space where Steinem and Paglia have long ago stopped speaking Oh, and she can see through you You're not, frankly, complex. Suited up, midday, from the office complex across the way convinced that a few moments in the public library can separate you from the machine you live Away from your one-bedroom, well-furnished apartment your nice corner cubicle as if that copy of Chekov changes anything about you Is it true that some people come to libraries for the people therein?
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