The Paris Library

by Janet Skeslien Charles

“Why don’t you have to go through this torture?” “Because no one cares when men get married.”

“People are awkward, they don’t always know what to do or say. Don’t hold it against them. You never know what’s in their hearts.”

“But seriously, why books. Because no other thing possesses that mystical faculty to make people see with other people’s eyes. The Library is a bridge of books between cultures.”

“Your books are lucky,” I said, eyeing her shelves. “They have an exact place they should be. They know who they’re next to. I wish I had a Dewey Decimal number.” “I used to wonder what my number would be if I had one. We could create our own.” This spurred a conversation. Should we be in literature or nonfiction? Should Odile’s number be French or American, and was there a French-American number? Could we share the same number so we’d always be together?

Babies didn’t know how lucky they were—they slept through most of the love.

Eugénie’s practically a nurse.” “Working in a library doesn’t make me practically a book.

a library without members is a cemetery of books,” Miss Reeder said. “Books are like people; without contact, they cease to exist.” “Beautifully said,” he replied.

“People make plans, and God laughs,” she said.

Love is accepting someone, all parts of them, even the ones you don’t like or understand.

I could read books but couldn’t read people.

As she drifted off, she realized it was true, she’d gotten everything she wanted. She wished she’d known to want more.

‘Accept people for who they are, not for who you want them to be.’ ”

Of course, he knew something was wrong, he was a librarian—part psychologist, bartender, bouncer, and detective.

Be grateful for what people tell you, when they’re ready to talk. Try to accept their limits, and understand that their limits usually have nothing to do with you.”