Spend any given time in a particular library system and you’ll become well acquainted with the ghostly undercurrent of patronage. A book misplaced on the shelves is lost; there is an abyss nearby where doomed socks go that is an aisle, tattered and never-ending, where wayward volumes sit. The patrons of this necropolis can come above, too. A shadow of a man today donated two boxes of books. They were left on the circulation disk, sitting there when I arrived.
Its tastes were mine. Classics (and Austen), and SciFi, and Arnold and Sagan. I couldn’t resist the gifts! – I shadowed a pristine copy of Watership Down, a beaten-up The Gunslinger, and an old Latin Composition from 1901.
It’s a shame it left no rosary for me to brandish when it comes for them after-hours.