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Sunday, April 24, 2005
The Reading Room
No one speaks in the vast, domed reading room in the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress, but the chamber is not nearly silent. Books clunk a deep bass chord as the conveyor belt to the vast underground stacks disgorges the light of civilization in hardcover and paperback. There is a quiet, ever-present shuffling as people shift in their seats, scribble on notepads, and always—always—flip pages.
I have just finished Gore Vidal's 1960 play The Best Man. When you fill out the little slip that they will send down the conveyor, you have the feeling that you could request The Necronomicon and, after an appropriate wait, it would be delivered to you at the small, wooden desk that is, for a brief moment, yours.
There is a sign that reads “Absolutely NO Photography!” And we all know how I feel about signs that think they can tell me what to do, so
The week before last*, as I was walking into the Madison building, I overheard a guard telling a family of three how to get from the enterance to the Madison building to the Jefferson building via the underground tunnels that link every building on the hill, presumably for the convenience of those senators and congressmen who would burst into flame should the rays of the sun touch their undead, incumbent flesh. I volunteered to guide the three lost tourists underground, because the Midwestern couple had an air of honesty, and more important, an attractive son about my age, perhaps a year or two younger.
They were indeed the nicest of folks, who had been on the hill to visit the office of their congressional representative, House Speaker Dennis Hastert, a man they admired and of course knew nothing about. As we walked, the parents listened, fascinated, to my few morsels of historical trivia. The father told me about their trip and historical curiosity. The mother talked of how much they loved Washington and enjoyed the monuments and museums. The son met my eyes, smiled, looked away, looked back, and spoke softly—and briefly, because the father would cut him off and distract my attention, perhaps unconsciously interposing himself between us in an effort to protect his eighteen-year-old son, who he saw as young, from experiences he feared his son wanted.
Or maybe the father just liked talking to me.
Either way, I saw them on their way, read a play, and took those pictures. It was a good afternoon.
I have just finished Gore Vidal's 1960 play The Best Man. When you fill out the little slip that they will send down the conveyor, you have the feeling that you could request The Necronomicon and, after an appropriate wait, it would be delivered to you at the small, wooden desk that is, for a brief moment, yours.
There is a sign that reads “Absolutely NO Photography!” And we all know how I feel about signs that think they can tell me what to do, so
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The week before last*, as I was walking into the Madison building, I overheard a guard telling a family of three how to get from the enterance to the Madison building to the Jefferson building via the underground tunnels that link every building on the hill, presumably for the convenience of those senators and congressmen who would burst into flame should the rays of the sun touch their undead, incumbent flesh. I volunteered to guide the three lost tourists underground, because the Midwestern couple had an air of honesty, and more important, an attractive son about my age, perhaps a year or two younger.
They were indeed the nicest of folks, who had been on the hill to visit the office of their congressional representative, House Speaker Dennis Hastert, a man they admired and of course knew nothing about. As we walked, the parents listened, fascinated, to my few morsels of historical trivia. The father told me about their trip and historical curiosity. The mother talked of how much they loved Washington and enjoyed the monuments and museums. The son met my eyes, smiled, looked away, looked back, and spoke softly—and briefly, because the father would cut him off and distract my attention, perhaps unconsciously interposing himself between us in an effort to protect his eighteen-year-old son, who he saw as young, from experiences he feared his son wanted.
Or maybe the father just liked talking to me.
Either way, I saw them on their way, read a play, and took those pictures. It was a good afternoon.
Speaking of reading, may I recommend PJ O'Rourke's "Peace Kills"? As he writes in the acknowlegements, "If you think [this] book good, behold what three short Irishmen can accomplish when they've lost the key to the liquor cabinet." You are part-Irish yourself, so enjoy... GUY
Posted by@ 7:36 PM
"Undead, incumbent flesh..." is a good line. Indeed, this is a well-written piece. I saw "Downfall" with Bruno Ganz at The Broadway. A VERY interesting movie. Warnings: 2 and 1/2 hrs. long and some extremely horrific scenes. I personally don't think the movie is about Hitler (although he is indispensible to the movie) but let me know what YOU think GUYPost a Comment
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