"Later, I Hope to Show the Library at Dublin My Oh-Face"

Now, coming upon this post as you are, unawares, I feel I ought to clarify the title (which was alternately going to be sex libris) straight away by telling you what this post is not, in fact, about. By “library smut” I am in no way referring to the photo books on native peoples, or the illustrated health manuals, or any of the other volumes which, in your childhood, you lurked about the library aisle to find with the sole purpose of sneaking guilty glances at naked bodies. Nor am I referring to the “risqué” novels by Miller, Cleland, Réage, or Lawrence you leafed impatiently through as a teenager. No. What I’m talking about here is the full-frontal objectification of the library itself. Oh yeah.

The former graduate student in me is going to need a tissue, a cigarette, and, possibly, a nap. When the first picture was simply the tops of a few books, I thought I was going to make it through to the end, but by the time I got to the British Library, London, I'd lost control of my breathing. At Rio, I'd begun to get that cresting-at-the-top-of-the-roller coaster feeling, and, by Amsterdam, I'd lost all control. Things became sticky, stained, and embarrassing at St. Gallen. Maybe, I can return to the Web site and finish the page later on after I've recovered, but, for now, I'm dizzy and drowsy. Excuse me, won't you?