Dear Central Library,
I was just checking you out. Any time I see your tiled, pyramidal crown in Downtown L.A., I need to detour into the second-floor rotunda, where I silently gush about the Deco-meets-arabesque dome and mural of California history.
Photograph: Jakob N. Layman
As I crane my neck to look up at the globe chandelier, your grandeur makes me feel so small, yet at ease, a feeling best summed up by the dedication plaque on the wall from librarian Everett Robbins Perry: “Here in these halls, the petty distractions of the earthly pilgrimage may be laid aside and their place taken by... inspiration and serenity.” Sigh.
Photograph: Michael Juliano
You know me uncannily well. Any time I need a birthday card, I pop into the Library Store and pick one up that’s a perfect fit. An illustration of a sangria-drinking taco? Yes! A unicorn picking flowers? How did you even guess? I swing by so often that I must seem like one of those obsessive customers who keeps showing up just to see you even when they don’t have anything to buy. But, you know, I was clearly there checking out the Ansel Adams exhibition upstairs and just happened to stop by the store. Clearly.
Considering the books, exhibits, speaking events and architecture—to paraphrase an animated aardvark—having fun with you isn’t hard when I have a library card. But I feel like I’m abusing that piece of plastic. You see, I’ve never actually caressed your millions of printed pages or slipped you my digits at the circulation desk. Instead, I borrow all of my books online. And it gets worse: I haven’t been entirely faithful. Look, sometimes the wait for the next A Song of Ice and Fire entry is just too long! And I get it: You’re all about sharing and swapping with as many literature lovers as possible, but the county library has a slightly shorter wait, and I—I have a card with it, too. Please forgive me. If you need to fine me, so be it, but just know that I still think you’re fine.
Photograph: Jakob N. Layman
Your bookish admirer,
Michael Juliano
