While he was spending his lonely nights in that library, he often imagined being saved by a beautiful girl in a white dress rambling into the reading room and remaining distractedly after closing time and waiting for him; he imagined showing her over the mysteries of the bindery and cataloguing room, then moving with her into the starry night. It never happened. He had many dreamy moments like those, every night when he worked in the library. There was a little for him to do. Few students made use of the evening opening; few were even aware of it. The librarians, women for the most part, preferred not to work after five o'clock, because the campus, up on the mountainside, was too bleak and lonely at night. And went they home. It was easy money, what he earned. But the discomfort he suffered was not inconsequential. The loneliness was heavy, the hours he spent there ticked boring. And when no one was there it was even creepy to sit down in the big room with dim lights hanging like...
Laboratorio di scrittura