There is a town somewhere in China that likely has the fanciest, most-artistic, and sanitary library in the whole world.
All kudos to the designers and builders for their creativity and ingenuity...
But to readers with poetic souls questions arise---
Are there quaint ivy-covered walls out front?
Is there an aged and poetic piece of wood, with its "patina," warmness, and inviting ambience visible anywhere in this whole "work of art?
Are there old-timer librarians wearing ancient tweed jackets or hand-knitted shawls...and lingering back in the "stacks" to help book-searchers search and chat about favorite "best-sellers" of half a century ago?
Are books of the whole world, (translated of course) to be found in this artistic place---
such as...those of---Dostoevsky, Joyce, Nietzsche, Faulkner, Twain, O'Brian, Austen, Tolstoy, Hardy, Bronte, McCullough, Caro, and Bellow... and a few thousand more...
O but do you realize that more than just the verse in books... libraries have a poetry of their own and it lingers in the air...
It is in the atmosphere in just about every library that ever existed; over time, it is the bookish aroma of bindings and glue--- thousand year vellum slowly-but surely being consumed by a million miniscule paper mites, so tiny as to almost not be there... but they too...must have their place in the shade.
Ah yes, every library needs that musty scent of books...
Can it be "blown in" to this one, somehow? ------------
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