There is a man working in the library I always go to. Its entrance hall is engraved with family names of the World War Two army victims. The main hall is rather tasteless, filled with tasteless decorations and local notice boards with out-of-date offers. The man wears only black clothes and always the same black leather shoes: not well polished but still in a good shape. If I were to name him, I would call him Edward. His whole body resembles a purple plum coated in a long cream jacket when he’s outdoors. Edward always carries a plastic bag, almost empty: nobody knows whether there is a sandwich or a book inside. No matter if he runs into me at the library's entrance or in the hall; no matter if he is on his lunch break or I am on mine; he always greets me in an old fashioned English manner: "Oh, good day, good day", swinging his arms in the air. I can hear him say "Alas" to every visitor in the library. He asks the same things every time he sees me, not less than sixty times in a year.
"Are you reading James Joyce?"
"No."
"Samuel Beckett?"
"No."
"Ted Hughes?"
"Yes, he is the best after James Joyce."
"What about the name of the rose?"
"Not yet."
"Well, maybe for a rainy day!"
"Well, it rains all the time!"
"Alas, it does!"
Within a week I hear his voice echoing through the hall again.
"Hello, good day – are you reading Ted Hughes?"
"No, I am not."
"T.S. Eliot?"
"No."
"Samuel Beckett's poetry?"
"Yes, he is the best after Ted Hughes."
"Splendid, splendid. Have you already read 'The Name of the Rose'?'
"I was here yesterday. You really insist I should read it. I have not read Umberto Eco, except for his essays."
"Well well, maybe for a rainy day!"
"Yeah, tomorrow."
Next day he seems confused.
"Hello, good day, how is Samuel Beckett doing?"
"I am not reading him."
I show him the cover of Ted Hughes 'Birthday Letters'.
"Oh, splendid, splendid. Have you read 'The Name of the Rose' yet?"
"I am thinking to give it a go."
"Very well then! For a rainy day!"
When rainy days won’t come to an end, I sit in the library again. Already from far away I can see Edward approaching, swinging his arms in the air.
"Hello, hello. Are you reading Ted Hughes?"
"Yes! He is the best!"
"Splendid, splendid." He brought a book with him.
"Have you read this?" He showed me 'War and Peace' by Lev Tolstoy.
"No, tried once, did not catch that."
"Same length as your favorite 'Ulysses'?"
"Double the length, I would say. The print is smaller."
"Yes, yes, you are right. Well, maybe for a rainy day."
"Snowy day I would say."
"Oh, yes, you are right. That's where you come from?"
"Kind of."
"What about ''The Name of the Rose?"
"I will read it after Hughes, tomorrow."
I can’t keep up with my promise. But it seems Edward is never really bothered to believe it.
"Hello. What are you reading? Beckett?"
"No."
"James Joyce?"
"No."
"Ted Hughes?
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"What are you reading?"
"Knut Hamsun."
"Splendid. He inspired Umberto Eco.
"Really?
"Yes, more precisely, 'The Name of the Rose'."
"I did not know."
"Only library people know."
He smiles. I see his plum figure disappear behind the shelves. Finally, the rain has stopped.
There is a man working in the library I always go to. Its entrance hall is engraved with family names of the World War Two army victims. The main hall is rather tasteless, filled with tasteless decorations and local notice boards with out-of-date offers. The man wears only black clothes and always the same black leather shoes: not well polished but still in a good shape. If I were to name him, I would call him Edward. His whole body resembles a purple plum coated in a long cream jacket when he’s outdoors. Edward always carries a plastic bag, almost empty: nobody knows whether there is a sandwich or a book inside. No matter if he runs into me at the library's entrance or in the hall; no matter if he is on his lunch break or I am on mine; he always greets me in an old fashioned English manner: "Oh, good day, good day", swinging his arms in the air. I can hear him say "Alas" to every visitor in the library. He asks the same things every time he sees me, not less than sixty times in a year.
"Are you reading James Joyce?"
"No."
"Samuel Beckett?"
"No."
"Ted Hughes?"
"Yes, he is the best after James Joyce."
"What about the name of the rose?"
"Not yet."
"Well, maybe for a rainy day!"
"Well, it rains all the time!"
"Alas, it does!"
Within a week I hear his voice echoing through the hall again.
"Hello, good day – are you reading Ted Hughes?"
"No, I am not."
"T.S. Eliot?"
"No."
"Samuel Beckett's poetry?"
"Yes, he is the best after Ted Hughes."
"Splendid, splendid. Have you already read 'The Name of the Rose'?'
"I was here yesterday. You really insist I should read it. I have not read Umberto Eco, except for his essays."
"Well well, maybe for a rainy day!"
"Yeah, tomorrow."
Next day he seems confused.
"Hello, good day, how is Samuel Beckett doing?"
"I am not reading him."
I show him the cover of Ted Hughes 'Birthday Letters'.
"Oh, splendid, splendid. Have you read 'The Name of the Rose' yet?"
"I am thinking to give it a go."
"Very well then! For a rainy day!"
When rainy days won’t come to an end, I sit in the library again. Already from far away I can see Edward approaching, swinging his arms in the air.
"Hello, hello. Are you reading Ted Hughes?"
"Yes! He is the best!"
"Splendid, splendid." He brought a book with him.
"Have you read this?" He showed me 'War and Peace' by Lev Tolstoy.
"No, tried once, did not catch that."
"Same length as your favorite 'Ulysses'?"
"Double the length, I would say. The print is smaller."
"Yes, yes, you are right. Well, maybe for a rainy day."
"Snowy day I would say."
"Oh, yes, you are right. That's where you come from?"
"Kind of."
"What about ''The Name of the Rose?"
"I will read it after Hughes, tomorrow."
I can’t keep up with my promise. But it seems Edward is never really bothered to believe it.
"Hello. What are you reading? Beckett?"
"No."
"James Joyce?"
"No."
"Ted Hughes?
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"What are you reading?"
"Knut Hamsun."
"Splendid. He inspired Umberto Eco.
"Really?
"Yes, more precisely, 'The Name of the Rose'."
"I did not know."
"Only library people know."
He smiles. I see his plum figure disappear behind the shelves. Finally, the rain has stopped.