On the Art of Getting Lost in Libraries

There is a particular kind of loneliness that only exists between the shelves of a university library at midnight. It is not unpleasant — rather, it feels like being the last person in a cathedral. The books breathe around you, centuries of thought compressed into paper and ink.

I found a copy of Borges' "The Library of Babel" misplaced in the theology section. Perhaps it belonged there after all.

Notes on a Rainy Afternoon

The rain against the window of this café sounds like applause. I've been here since noon, working through Rilke's letters. He writes to the young poet: "Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage."

I ordered my third coffee. The barista has stopped asking questions. There is an understanding between us.

Marginalia

someone underlined this passage
in faded pencil, years ago —
a stranger's hand trembling
at the same sentence
that now stops me cold.

we will never meet,
but we have read
the same truth
and been changed by it.

Things I Want to Remember

• the way the chapel looks at 6am, empty and golden
• that line from Sappho nobody translates the same way twice
• the sound of rain on old stone buildings
• Theo's theory about Caravaggio being the first film noir director
• the taste of black coffee in a room full of books
• the particular silence after a string quartet finishes playing