Oh my Gosh! Isn’t that exciting? Exhilarating! My lord is setting me free from his rank library, in which he indulges in the tedious pages of his electronic nonsense books without even looking at us. He is setting me free, as some kind of New Year resolution I believe, free to the urban library of Ville de Bruxelles.
What a blessing this is! Out in the fresh air and waiting for the minds of knowledgeable readers to set their eyes onto Dorian Gray, the heart-wrenching story of the Victorian young man, which is told right between my two covers.
On my way I am, dear reader.
I have not foreseen this, no. Frankly speaking, I rather supposed there would be a readers’ queue, or more precisely a crowd, in this less disciplined vicinity, waiting to choose from the books exposed in this bohemian and attractive concept that the urban library constitutes. Admittedly, I am the only book with a certain value. And I say “certain”, because I am intending to be modest in this junk pile of old vehicle magazines and remainders of B-list publications, some of them stained or intelligible and altogether of the most unpresentable appearance.
Well, yet another day of waiting to be picked up. I feel like an old harlot at the yard of an opium den. Disgraceful. Notwithstanding, I am a patient being. In the end, I had been waiting on a dusty shelf for something to happen for more than 30 years. Oh dears.
Now, this is absolutely ridiculous. I have been woken up in the middle of a chilly night, just to serve as a primitive pillow to the greasy boffin of some drunkard. A heavily intoxicated stroller it seemed with no other place to lay his head on. Ridiculous, I said it. This is not a strong enough depiction, but I cannot find the right words for this harebrained idea of putting up an alfresco library in the middle of a city where it never stops to piss down on you.
Still…well…nothing. A good soul picked me up from the street and put me back into the so-called library. Not in a subtle manner, but at least I am dry.
Heureka! An angel has taken me under his wing. A Prince Charming, so graceful and tender, it could be Dorian himself. He is taking me on a bus-ride to his domicile. How romantic that is. I feel so close to him and this is before he even read me. I cannot wait until he opens my pages one by one. His eyelashes brushing the air while he grazes through the lines I contain. His pursed lips whispering the words of the story I carry. His mind set alight by the passion I transfuse.
I am a bit surprised. Obviously, they do make bookshelves different these days. I must say I preferred those, where I was actually sitting inside the shelf, not laid under one foot of it. But times change, I presume. And this habitation is humble, but not a bad place: So full of young souls, chattering voices, and spirits dancing in the flames of booze and smoke. From my rather uncomfortable position I heard talks about cupidity, statecraft and academia. I quite like that. I just wondered: When will they finally find the time to read me?