What is it about a violet-twilight library that always feels like a secret? Maybe it’s the way lamplight gilds a well-thumbed page or the hush that hangs between spines, thick as velvet. I always think of Philip Larkin’s “Books are a load of crap”, but we know he was being contrary. There are hours, like now, when a line from Dickinson or Gluck will lift right off the page, blanket-warm and astonishing. My chai is cooling, my glasses halfway down my nose, and there’s a poem penciled in the margin, waiting for someone else to find it. If you were here, I’d read it aloud, let’s trade favorite first lines and see how many ways a rainy evening can bloom.