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Bookish<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n 1 \u2013 Reading Rooms, Bodleian Library<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n She trails her finger down the paper slips<\/p>\n that fill the ancient catalogues until<\/p>\n she finds the books she wants, then softly sings<\/p>\n her way up stairs that creak like those in old<\/p>\n romance, to choose a chair of English oak<\/p>\n and wait, and read of Gamelyn and Horn<\/p>\n and stare through leaded windows on a view<\/p>\n of spires and sky that makes her catch her breath.<\/p>\n The young librarian with horn-rimmed specs<\/p>\n walks over with her order, and a note:<\/p>\n Shelfmark I like your books. King\u2019s Arms at 8?<\/em><\/p>\n All day she sits and works. At 5.18<\/p>\n she scribbles Yes <\/em>and as she leaves he sees<\/p>\n the note alight like gold leaf on his desk.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n 2 – Hertford College Library (Basement)<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n \u2018No students here tonight,\u2019 she whispers in<\/p>\n the reference section. \u2018Talk clever to me.\u2019<\/p>\n Giacomo Casanova was a useless librarian.<\/em><\/p>\n She laughs, I smile, we peel our jackets off.<\/p>\n I kiss the dark below her ear. \u2018Your turn.\u2019<\/p>\n If you put Saturn in water it would float.<\/em><\/p>\n Her hands draw circles in my hair. My mouth<\/p>\n goes to her blouse and tooths each button free.<\/p>\n Some historians regard the period 1914-1945 <\/em><\/p>\n as a twentieth-century Thirty Years\u2019 War.<\/em><\/p>\n She pulls my shirt aside to trace the square<\/p>\n black script on my left shoulder: Silence Please.<\/p>\n Sunspot activity may be the primary reason <\/em><\/p>\n for the exquisite sound of Stradivarius violins.<\/em><\/p>\n The room is chill, her breath is warm across<\/p>\n my neck; her hair is black and smells of ink.<\/p>\n In a process called cold welding, two surfaces <\/em><\/p>\n of similar metal will strongly adhere <\/em><\/p>\n if brought into contact under vacuum. <\/em><\/p>\n With eyes and fingers, lips and tongue I start<\/p>\n to catalogue her creamy vellum curves.<\/p>\n For Elias, society is like a group of dancers. <\/em><\/p>\n Each individual\u2019s gestures and movements are <\/em><\/p>\n synchronized, meshed with those of the others.<\/em><\/p>\n She reaches up behind her head and grips<\/p>\n the grey steel shelf (Law Journals X to Z).<\/p>\n \u2018Sublime\u2019 comes from \u2018sub-limen\u2019 (Latin) meaning <\/em><\/p>\n \u2018up to the threshold\u2019. The sublime makes us experience <\/em><\/p>\n a visceral limit, takes us beyond language, to the realm <\/em><\/p>\n of the groan, a wordless expression of acute pleasure.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n 3 – Radcliffe Camera, Bodleian Library<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n We have made love at every compass point<\/p>\n and some between, in pre- and post-work hours<\/p>\n on long oak tables, hard and warm, and through<\/p>\n the high arched windows there is sometimes sun<\/p>\n and sometimes rain and fog but always green.<\/p>\n All Soul\u2019s, St Mary\u2019s, Brasenose seem to turn<\/p>\n their backs but still blush red in the evening sky<\/p>\n and glow an icy blue in winter dawn.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve spent so many hours in here that there\u2019s<\/p>\n a space inside my head this shape, this height,<\/p>\n this light, where walls of books make open rooms;<\/p>\n so here I lie inside myself and look<\/p>\n at him and know that this will be the place<\/p>\n I will crawl back to always in my dreams.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n 4 – British Library (Newspapers), Colindale<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n They fight in whispers by the microfiche<\/p>\n machines, pretending it\u2019s about how long<\/p>\n she works each day. He tries to make a joke<\/p>\n to calm her down, to jolt her eyes to their<\/p>\n old focus: him. \u2018Why read this stuff? You\u2019re not<\/p>\n a harsh-reality girl.\u2019 Her eyes are ink.<\/p>\n She hisses. \u2018Don\u2019t you tell me what I am!<\/p>\n It\u2019s time we put an end to this.\u2019 And leaves.<\/p>\n Once home he\u2019s unsure how he found his way<\/p>\n to catch the bus. He sees the battered tin<\/p>\n of Lapsang Tea and throws up in the sink.<\/p>\n Her room is dark. She sits with open eyes,<\/p>\n a closed book on her lap. Her belly hurts<\/p>\n like being kicked; she knows that this means blood.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n 5 – British Library, St Pancras<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n They wear white gloves and speak in cotton tones.<\/p>\n He thanks God that his colleague\u2019s ill, so he<\/p>\n must bring the manuscript and sit with her<\/p>\n in awe of this rare thing, this ancient book<\/p>\n with quiet vellum leaves and square black script<\/p>\n and breathing pigments: red from dragonblood<\/p>\n and blue from azurite and grassy green<\/p>\n from verdigris, and gold leaf like the sun.<\/p>\n He finds he can exhale and then draw breath.<\/p>\n She finds her wooden chair is like a bed.<\/p>\n It might be her, or him, who looks into<\/p>\n a bookish face (once-loved, still young) and speaks:<\/p>\n Without the exquisite proximity <\/em><\/p>\n