The library in Copley Square has rethought itself as a tomb. People enter but don’t emerge. At dusk the interior lights don’t light, but the claw-shaped lanterns by the bronze doors ignite like torches in a dark procession. You possess a peculiar feel for the sleek marble interior, the Sargent murals, the atrium where we lunched a long time ago. We haven’t been friends for years. My telegrams went unanswered, my gift baskets were returned. But now you must explain why the cheerful strata of books arrayed on miles and miles of shelving have gone blank and wordless, why deep in the modern annex the skeletons of ancient librarians dance in a scene from a Bergman film. You know every angle and creak of both the old marble block and the poured concrete annex with its tinted plate glass views. You know who has tumbled down the slick marble stairways and which bones they’ve broken. You know when the plumbing shrieks with pain and when it remains silent no matter how frequent the flush. Explain why it has become a tomb, digesting everyone who enters. Explain why unalterable law has repealed itself and replaced its guardians with unlettered armies of the dead. Don’t ignore this phenomenon. The world depends on your intimate knowledge, the yellow marble writhing, the famous granite façade a rictus of malignant wit.
William Doreski
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
The Library Love Letter 