It was a glorious winter day when I went to the library smelling like Irish Spring, sporting a new self-buzz cut; trimmed goatee and mustache; and handlebars, curled with the help of Elmer’s disappearing purple glue stick and spirit gum.
“Hi! Such a sunny day out there and it’s in the 70s!” I cheerfully greeted the librarian at the door.
“Wish it was true!” she mused, catching my attempt at humor.
We giggled as I approached the shelves with books for pickup.
“Hmm… an inch and half!” I chortled as I held the spine of THE BOOK. I stared at the cover photo – a lone madeleine, off center on a white porcelain plate which was laid on a lace tablecloth.
“What could the significance be?” I wondered. Having exhausted possible interpretations, I proceeded to the reading area.
“I am going to try reading this!” I proudly announced as I passed by two other librarians on the way. “I must do it before I die!”
Both grinned, one giving me a thumbs up and the other nodding.
There were only 2 patrons at separate tables in the spacious reading area. The tall glass walls not only allowed the natural light to pour in but also offered an unobstructed view of the outside winter greenery.
I found a table, a distance from theirs but closer to the grand 2-sided gas fireplace encased in earth-toned bricks.
Wishing I was wearing a smoking jacket and holding a cigar, I proceeded to gingerly flip open the cover. Printed on the back of the front cover was a copy of the author’s drawings and handwritten notes in French. I began to feel so honored and lucky to finally have the opportunity to read the English-translated Volume 1 of the highly-touted novel, “In Search of Lost Time”, supposedly the finest of its kind in the twentieth century. I held my breath as I turned to page 1.
“For a long time I used to go to bed early” was such a great start, I thought. So, I read and I read and I read. After 10 pages and 17 minutes (yes, I set the timer on my phone) I found myself running out of breath, keeping track of long passages. The commas, colons, quotation marks, and exclamation points became a blur. Despite my earnestness in concentrating on the contents, I found my eyes slowly gravitating towards my newly-clipped fingernails and the few hairs on my hands. The red beard on the patron at the table to my left and the white AirPods in the girl’s ears to my right suddenly became more interesting. I tried to get back to the page where I was last but couldn’t get myself back in the groove. I finally determined that appreciating Proust’s endless stream-of-consciousness demanded discipline and focus. And I, notorious for having a short attention span, was not fully equipped for the challenge!
I closed the book and walked towards the two librarians.
“This book is not for me!” I held high the book as I chuckled, disguising the firmness of my decision. One had a sympathetic face while the other just grinned.
“Too tedious!” I told the librarian at the door as I handed over the book. “Oh, by the way, I used to be the library’s graphic artist years ago.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, I created posters and signs manually, nothing computer-assisted. Unfortunately, the staff that I used to work with have all retired.” I paused and hastened to add, “I know, you probably weren’t even born yet!”
We laughed as I waved goodbye.
I drove home thinking about binge-watching “Resident Alien” Seasons 1 & 2 and YouTube videos on feral hogs being hunted or caught and cute kune kune piglets fighting to establish dominance, competing over available teats or sleeping close to their mother’s warmth.
Somehow, touch-pressing keys on TV remotes seemed more exciting than flipping 496 pages!
Proust n’est pas pour moi!
