OUTLAWS OF THE LIBRARY by Laura Raphael
I
spend my days surrounded by books. A glorious, beautiful,
maddening riot of books—hundreds of thousands of them at
the downtown library alone, in all shapes, sizes, and subjects,
spilling from carts and shelves, stacked on desks and waiting
in bins. While some books are crackling new, most have been
around the circulation desk a few or 300 times. Old or new,
all are begging to be organized, shelved, and, above all, picked up and
taken home by interested readers.
To make this happen, each person in my department is in charge of a
particular part of the collection—Melissa is the queen of cookbooks and
graphic novels, Peter the master of biographies and plays, Rosemary the
goddess of teen paperbacks, and so on.
about your place of employment, but in the library, a file folder, when
Me, I am the caretaker of about 40,000 volumes of fiction for adults.
accompanied by a label on its tab, lends authority to any random pile of
As such, I act as both creator and destroyer, bringer of literary death as well
unrelated items. That’s how I knew it was official: my file folder, with a
as life. In other words, while I often have the happy task of recommending
label that read “Outlaws of the Library,” meant I now had a Collection.
new purchases or getting readers to try out new novels, sometimes I must
More than that, it fast became an obsession, with me sidling up to
remove books from the collection–an odious yet important task.
trusted co-workers a few times a week, thrusting the folder at them, and
Tackling a shelf or two every few months, I euthanize books not checked
whispering, “Hey, do you want to see something really cool?”
out since the early Reagan administration, for example, or so worn, torn,
But why? I don’t smoke. And even though I was born in NRA-friendly
and streaked with crusty mustard blotches and coffee stains that nobody
Oklahoma, the only reason I know which end of a gun is the shooting one
wants to touch them, including me. The official library term for doing this
is from watching Law and Order reruns.
is “weeding” and sometimes “de-selection,” and, as important as it is (It is!
Initially, I thought it came from my longtime fascination with how
It is! I have research to prove it!), sometimes it breaks my heart.
people use objects—STUFF—to communicate who they are, or who they
There is usually much gnashing of teeth and rending of garments,
want to be, or who they want others to think they are. Her worn running
arguing with the heavens, et cetera, before I find the courage to carry
shorts say (or she thinks they say), I Am a Serious Athlete. He wants his
on. Goodbye, shelves crammed with moldy, missing-paged books; hello,
leather-elbow-patch corduroy jacket to declare, I Am a Card-Carrying
freedom AND Freedom (by Jonathan Franzen), room AND Room (by
Member of the Academic Elite. What we wear, what we own, what we
Emma Donaghue).
stuff in our closets and carry with us in our pockets every day scream
But then, a year or so ago, while stamping “DISCARD” on the inside
information about us: class identity, gender role, age, education, political
front and back covers of the book-sale-bound books, I started looking
beliefs, both future aspirations and past personal history.
more closely at the author photos. The more I looked at them, the more I
That wasn’t quite it. I am self-aware (and self-other things) enough to
noticed how many authors hold onto an array of objects in their photos. I
know that most of my obsessions come not from the inherent fascination
saw a fair number of typewriters and pens, of course, and, later, desktop
of whatever I’m obsessing over, but with… me. So what deeper reason was
computers and laptops, but these authors also clutched kittens and fishing
I, me, identifying with these gun- and cigarette-toting authors?
poles, teacups and world globes, roses tucked
Before I go on, let me add that I am exactly
behind ears and Yankee ball caps perched on
the kind of person you expect to work in a
CIGARETTE. SHOTGUN. library. Quiet. Introverted. A rule-follower,
heads. Some were my literary heroes, some
were writers I’d never heard of before. Some
a regular voter, someone who pays her taxes
CIGAR. PISTOL. PIPE.
looked unbelievably cool, cool enough to make
and drives the speed limit (within reason).
THESE
WERE
AUTHORS.
me rethink my no-smoking, no-shooting ways,
It absolutely infuriates me when people
while some looked awkward and out of place,
shirk their responsibilities or flout common
amateur actors stumbling on the stage of their own private nightmares.
courtesy–talk loudly on cellphones in movie theaters or ignore the “Merge
There is a 1970 Joan Didion, as lean and elegant as a parenthesis,
Now—State Law” signs, that kind of thing.
beautifully scowling, cigarette in one hand as she stares defiantly at the
So the more my “Outlaws of the Library” collection grew, the more
reader. Next, a dweeby moustached guy in a tuxedo “casually” clutching
I started to wonder: did this have something to do with the lure of the
a pistol as he leans forward on a chair, arms crossed—an American James
forbidden, the dark pull of danger that smoking and guns represent?
Bond, in his own mind, at least. Then a young, homely-sexy Salman
Lighting up and packing heat aren’t illegal, of course, but it’s on the edge
Rushdie, looking away from the camera and with hand on forehead, a tiny
of what I consider polite, and I am nothing if not the proverbial good girl,
stub of a nearly-gone cigarette between two fingers.
polite to a fault.
Cigarette. Shotgun. Cigar. Pistol. Pipe. These were authors. IntelleckWhen I realized this, I had to laugh. Was this just a bit of late-flowering,
shuals. And yet if they were anywhere but in photographs at the library
passive-aggressive, adolescent rebellion? But instead of carrying out the
– if they were actually in the flesh in front of me, accoutrements in hand–I
acts myself–dying my hair neon pink, getting an inappropriately-placed
would have to call Security to escort them out. (“I’m sorry, Ms. Didion,
tattoo (mine would say “Faulkner 4Ever”)—I was letting my authors do
but our policy clearly states that smoking is not allowed. No exceptions,
it for me by proxy? Such a librarian thing to do. (Real life is for suckers…
even for authors with Pulitzer Prizes.”)
I’d rather be reading.)
Yet I loved every photo, and I wanted to rescue them all. It was visceral,
Meh. No matter. My obsession stands, and I flip through my file every
and strange, and I knew I was in trouble when I discovered a doublenow and then when I need a jolt of feeling like an outlaw… without doing
whammy Ian Fleming. I saw the first one, which featured Fleming
anything, you know, outside the law.
holding an ivory cigarette-holder, and my reptilian brain cried out, Want
want want. Then I saw the second photo—this time, Fleming’s lips were
Laura Raphael has written for nearly every major non-academic library
hovering over a smoking pistol, as if he’d just shot it—and all I could think
magazine, including Public Libraries, American Libraries, Marketing
was Gimme gimme gimme.
Library Services, and Library Journal. She worked at the Memphis Public
Without much of a plan, I started photocopying and then stuffing the
Library in the early 2000s and has been at the Tulsa City-County Library since
copies in a recycled envelope. Soon, I upgraded to a sturdy manila file
2004, where she coordinates Novel Talk, a thrice-annual event designed to help
folder and gave it a place on my desk with my other files. I don’t know
people explore cultural and social issues through fiction. She also just likes to read.