58th Street Library Novels & Stories

Outside Atlanta did its Friday night thing — loud and alive and completely indifferent to the fact that two people in a library on a quiet street were trying to hold a complicated life together with both hands and finding that between the two of them they had enough hands for the job. Just about.

My name is Angela. I’m 28, single, and hopelessly addicted to the quiet escape of books. That’s why, three times a week, I slip into this little library tucked between a coffee shop and a dry cleaner on a side street in Lower Manhattan. It’s always half-empty — dusty shelves, soft lamplight, the faint smell of old paper and polished wood. I love it. No one bothers you here. Or so I thought. That afternoon I was deep into a worn paperback when my bladder protested. I approached the circulation desk, smiling at the librarian — a severe woman in her fifties with silver hair pinned tight.

He thought: the eighth section is the drawing of the librarian's attending. Thomas wrote about one path the eighth section had not drawn. He wrote that the most common path in the library was not between the rooms but from any room to the window seat on the first floor landing — the window seat that overlooked the street, the seat that no one had designed, the window seat that had appeared when a renovation left a wide sill at sitting height beside the landing window. He wrote that people used this seat between rooms — not as a destination but as the between-time of the attending journey, the resting place between one attending condition and the next. He wrote: the window seat on the landing

Dante said. "You were here at seven and you left," she said. "This time you'll see it properly." She paused. "There's a library near the house. Still there. I walked past it last week before the hip decided to be dramatic." Dante looked at her. "The same library?" he said. "It's been there since 1906," she said. "It doesn't go anywhere." She held his gaze. "The mathematics section is on the second floor. Left side."

Emma stood outside Jake Morrison's apartment building on the Upper East Side, clutching her laptop bag and seriously questioning her life choices. The elegant brownstone with its wrought-iron details and perfectly manicured entrance screamed expensive the kind of place that came with doormen and marble lobbies and editors who could afford to take risks with their authors' careers.

“But I heard they have dance classes in the evening.” “Ooh, we should go then” Mia said. She looked already excited at the thought of it. “I’ll join if you do,” I said. “I might come just to watch,” Jordan spoke with a wink. Elisa rolled her eyes. “Of course you would.” After that, we found the library on the east side. It’s building was tall, made of red bricks, and large glass windows. We stepped inside, and the air was cooler than warm weather outside. The smell of books filled our senses.

Chapter 58: The Unbroken Horizon The wind was blowing hard across the valley making the big windows of the library shake.. Inside everything was calm and quiet. The big fireplace was putting out a lot of heat. It smelled like wood. Elena was sitting at a table working on her laptop. She had a lot of papers and books spread out around her like old records from the harbor and a diary that belonged to Thomas Miller. She had taken all these things and put them into her computer so now they were a part of her story.

New York had its helipad and secret underground tunnel system. But the library was the heart and soul of almost every branch. It was where deals were brokered, confidences shared, and alliances forged or broken. Tonight, for once, it was empty. “Wow.” Eliana’s reverent whisper drifted through the still air as we stepped inside. I closed the doors behind us, cocooning us in hushed silence. Thousands of books stretched up and across three walls toward the cathedral ceiling like a leather-bound forest complete with rolling ladders and wooden handrails. Five larger-than-life stained-glass windows stood

Even it was raining hard, the street was still busy with wheels rolling on the wet street, and feet marching on the sidewalk. The Ladies’ Coffee was a small café on the east of New York City. It was quite unpopular because of its location. It was hidden behind the tall law firm building, and was a bit far from the center of downtown. Not many actually knows that an eighteen-years-old café was existing behind the Madison Firm.

Clarissa leaned on the window and watched the buildings blur as the car sped past them. The change in scenery was noticeable as they moved away from Hydepark and into the 68th Avenue. The stark difference between the neighborhoods began with a decrease in the number of functioning streetlights, shady alleys loomed at every corner. suspicious looking persons milled around, always peeking behind their shoulders. 68th was well-known for housing the dirtiest and most dangerous slum in the whole of Chicago. Notorious for holding the highest number of drug busts per annum, infamous criminals made 68th their home. Ladies in skimpy and shiny clothes, who stood at street corners waved and leered at t