Confessions of a Bibliophile
The economy’s in the shit. We all know this, and I’m not going to rant (too much): we all know that cuts need to be made, but the question of the day is of course where to cut, and what to save. World Book Day this week has prompted me to present my own apologia for something near and dear to my heart: the library.
There have been some great articles in defence of libraries written over recent months, by greater writers than I, and they’ve even made some fairly good points along the way. Bizarrely, however, they’ve missed out the main reason we should save libraries. I’m here to put that right - and no, it’s not that they give our beloved Editor a place to put on his poncy poetry readings.
The British public has had an enduring love affair with the book, there can be no doubt about it - the UK is the largest publisher of titles in the freaking world. But, in case you somehow hadn’t noticed, we’re in a double-dip recession and families are struggling to pay rent and buy food - books are dropping down the list of priorities. Books are turning into a luxury item, and that seems wrong to a lot of people, but at least - for now - there’s libraries to make up for it. Closing the libraries would undemocratize access to books, and surely people need books? Aren’t they supposed to, y’know, influence and inspire people and all that shiz?
There’s a great story about a library in the States back in the 80s. (Yeah, apparently they can read over there. Who knew?) Money was tight and the library was threatened with closure. The community was split over whether or not it was worth keeping: was it being used enough? They examined the books themselves for the answer. Book after book - great works of literature, learned history tomes, volumes of philosophical thought - not a one had ever been checked out more than a couple of times, and most were virgins, untouched by human hand. It wasn’t looking good for the “pro-library” campaigners. Then, finally, they opened one book: The Collected Works of Mohandas K. Gandhi. You’d think that book at least had to have interested someone… but there was just one name on the sign-out sheet.
Had the name not been that of a young Martin Luther King, Jr., this story might have ended differently, and that particular library might have been lost.
OK, we’ve proved* that books can be important, that they have the power to change the world yadda yadda yadda. But frankly, that’s not why we should be saving libraries. About the only thing deeper in the crap than the state of the country’s economy is the state of the country’s education system. The next generation is, by and large, full of illiterate, ill-educated and ignorant idiots. Except those that write for Snipe, they’re OK.
In ten or twenty years time, will any of our children still be able to read the books previous generations have so lovingly stored in libraries? Books only have an impact if people can actually read them, after all.
So failing that, why save libraries? As places for all the doddery old people to go and read large-print Mills&Boon pseudo-porn while huddling together for warmth since they can no longer afford the cost of heating their own homes? Well, we do need somewhere for them to go - or they’ll start coming to our trendy coffee shops instead, and they tend to leave an unpleasant tang of urine in the air behind them. (Bladder control - only appreciated once you’ve lost it.) Libraries are therefore useful for this, but then again so are supermarket cafés, so there must still be better reasons.
There’s the plausible theory of them being ideal places to hide from marauding zombies, which has merit; no one wants to be eaten. At least, not in the “by a rotting, germ-infested and probably stinky corpse” sense. I hope. Because there’s kinky, and then there’s just plain wrong.
Libraries are also going come in handier in the future than now. While we might have a chance at saving libraries if we act now, it looks like the fat lady’s sung for public toilets. I guess our ConDem masters are just too posh to piss, so they don’t realise the rest of us might occasionally need to while mooching around the town centre looking cool and heckling the truly terrible buskers, mocking the less aesthetically gifted and those with no fashion sense. Libraries usually have a nice clean loo somewhere, and fluttering your eyelashes at the staff can get you into it in an emergency. Maybe it’s fitting they’ll just end up as places to piss, because this government is pissing all over us and them.
But let’s face it, the prime reason, the biggie, the absolute #1 motive for saving libraries is that they are the best place in the world to fuck.
Sex in the library is an official rite of passage for students, and the thrill doesn’t fade later. There’s an undeniable eroticism about libraries which makes them heaven for a bit of naughty nookie. Think about it; it’s perfect. You’ve got sexy librarians to fantasise about if your chosen partner’s a bit of a dog. (We’ve all dated one, you just have to close your eyes and think of… well, think of the sexy librarians.) There’s the risk of being caught, the need to be quiet, the thought of all the rules you’re breaking; it’s the ultimate transgressive act.
I have a few friends who try to claim that boffing in churches takes that title but I disagree. Yeah, screwing around in the confessional or behind the altar is going to offend all the blinkered god-botherers stuck in the Middle Ages who sit there passing judgement on anyone with a boner and the desire to use it, but - well, what doesn’t offend all those stuffy twats? It’s too easy to do, and that takes all the fun out of it.
Those bastions of perverted public school survivors, Oxford and Cambridge, know all about the eroticism of the library. It’s no coincidence that the Tab’s library tower is distinctly phallic, with the wings of the building puddling to either side of the base like a sagging scrotum, while the darker blues’ Radcliffe Camera library resembles a voluptuous, succulent breast topped by a perky nipple positively begging to be nibbled on. Libraries are just built for sex.
It’s said that books allow us to communicate across the generations, and that’s an amazing thing. Yup, I suppose it is, but from a more pragmatic point of view that just means library shelves are the last resting place for a lot of dusty dead dudes. Shagging in front of all of them is a rush, it’s a celebration of the fact you still can get it up when they’ll long past it - it’s action instead of words. You’ll never feel more alive. If you’re reading this on a library computer, stop for a second and take a look at the shy, quiet little bookworm sitting at the desk in the corner. Trust me, he or she has hidden depths, and they probably know why libraries are so amazing. Think about taking them back into the stacks for a quickie. Think about muffling their cries with your hand. Think about the risk of someone seeing you. See what I mean?
What are you even still reading for? Go, get some action. And when you’ve done that, go here, sign some petitions and give them some money to help keep your libraries open. You’ll never find a better place for a shag, and they even stock some great books too.
*Yes, I know that one anecdotal story isn’t proof, and I know damn well I therefore haven’t proved my point. But this isn’t a scientific journal, I can’t be arsed quoting 27 different sources, and you can all sod right off.
