He types it in and all the titles come up on the screen. Then he types in the number next to Macbeth and says, "There it is. You got it?"
I read the screen and understand. "Thanks."
"Just yell out if you need me."
"No worries."
He goes off, and I'm alone with the keys, the writers, and the screen.
First up, I go for Graham Greene. I'll go in the same order as they're listed on the card. I search my pocket for some paper but all I've got is a decrepit napkin. There's a pen tied to the table, and when I punch the name in and hit return, all the titles of Graham Greene come up on-screen.
Some of the titles are brilliant.
The Human Factor.
Brighton Rock.
The Heart of the Matter.
The Power and the Glory.
Our Man in Havana.
I write them all on the napkin, as well as the call number for the first one.
Next, I type West, Morris. Some of his titles are just as good, if not better.
Gallows on the Sand.
The Shoes of the Fisherman.
Children of the Sun.
The Ringmaster.
The Clowns of God.
Now, Sylvia.
I must admit, I have a soft spot for her because I've read her once and it was her writing that came to me in the dream. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be sitting here, closer to knowing where I have to go. I want her titles to be the best, and whether it's biased or not, to me, they are.
The Winter Ship.
The Colossus.
Ariel.
Crossing the Water.
The Bell Jar.
I take the napkin to the shelves and look them all up again, in order. They're all beautiful. All old and hard-covered in plain red or blue or black. I take all of them. Every one, and I go and sit down with them. What now?
How the hell am I going to read all of these in a week or two? The poems of Sylvia, maybe, but the other two have written some pretty long books, to say the least. I hope they're good.
"Listen," says the library man. I'm at the counter with all the books. "You can't borrow this many. There's a limit, you know. Do you even have a card?"
"What kind of card?" I can't help it. "A playing card? A credit card? What kind of card do you mean?"