BIBLIOPHILIC (UN)SAINTLINESS

Picture drawn from
http://www.cartoonstudio.co.uk/StressCartoons.html

Generally speaking, I love all the people who use the library. Generally speaking. But ever since Bill Bryson we know that this is “always a dangerous thing to do, generally speaking”. True enough, most library users are really nice people. Yet, there are also those that turn even angelic me into a raving termagant. In the past two years I’ve accumulated enough experience to be able to divide these weirdoes into the following groups:

                                                   

Group 1. The pseudo-intellectuals.

Group 2. The complicated.

Group 3. The know-it-alls.

Group 1. The pseudo-intellectuals. You could also call them the blatantly dim-witted. A dangerous breed that takes the asking-stupid-questions-in-disguise thing to a wholly different level. They are the Mary Bennets of the Unipark library, people “of deep reflection” who wish “to say something very sensible, but [know] not how”. They come up to you, ask you if you’re a student and upon receiving a "yes" they give you a nod of approbation, and you know: your whole person has just been upgraded by this "yes". Their actual question is usually really profound, like, “Why is it that some poems sound ‘harder’ than other ones?” Oh come on. I used to be indulgent and give these matters some thought. In the case of the poems, I tried to come up with something vaguely useful and poured forth my not very extensive knowledge about the differences between various Slavic languages. That some have more consonants. That others have more vowels. And that, obviously, those with many vowels sound more melodious than those with many consonants. Pearls of wisdom, I know. But as soon as you try to answer their question, they’re disappointed. They think they’ve brought up an important problem that people are unaware of, and woe betide anyone who comes close to bursting their bubble. They immediately shoot back by talking in so complicated multi-clause sentences containing so many Latinisms that you, and often they themselves, lose track of their syntax. The good news is that from then on it’s easy. Just oblige them. Tell them that you’ve got no clue. Or rather, since they’re the Mary Bennets of the Unipark library, use Mr Bennet’s diction “I have not the pleasure of understanding you. Of what are you talking?”. Off they go, satisfied with your ignorance.

Group 2. The complicated. Suffice it to say that their hair colour ranges from white to pale lilac, and you can probably guess the rest. 70-year-old Art History students. Jeeze. Apparently, they are under the impression that it’s every librarian’s job to show them ten times in a row how to switch a computer on and off. Of course, you’re very kind at first. With the patience of a saint you explain them what button to press and where to enter their logins. After the fifth time, though, you get mildly aggressive, and think that you’re about to lose it. Usually, they don’t make things any better by panicking because the computer won’t let them log on due to a typo. And as if things weren’t bad enough already, they tend to call you Fräulein. I say! I’ll switch the computer on and off 20 times if need be, but, PLEASE, don’t Fräulein me! What does that term even mean? That I don’t strike them as a grown woman? Because if that’s the case, I’d need to enlighten them as to my age. Or that they consider me inferior to themselves, socially speaking, because they are patrons in the place I work, and they want to maintain this distance by using that word? I suppose they mean no harm, but my connotations with that term are invariably derogatory, and every time I’m accosted that way, I’m piqued. So kudos to you if you’ve managed to stay calm, and pray that they won’t want to order something through inter-library loan. If they do, just turn and run. This is bound to end in a complete chaos.

Another very special group is group 3, the know-it-alls. Basically, it boils down to this: they want to explain the shelving system in the library and the online catalogue to you. Mostly it’s the “Entlehnt-Entlehnbar” case. Waylaying me when I’m reshelving books, people often ask me if I could help them look for something. That’s fine; after all, that’s what I’m here for. And I really don’t mind showing people the books they’re looking for even though they’re standing right in front of them. What I do mind, though, is when they try to enlighten me while I’m searching. Like when they make me look for a book only to tell me that the corresponding field in the online catalogue was red and said “Entlehnt bis...” Hmm, what could that possibly mean? Interestingly, it doesn’t help at all to explain to them that this is why the book isn’t here, that it’s out to another reader. They ramble on and on about the status that says “Entlehnbar”. And when you tell them that this only means that the book is generally borrowable, they don’t listen either. That there are various statuses like “Ankauf” for acquisition or “In Bearbeitung” for books that are currently being catalogued. You could just as well talk to the wall. At best, they inform you that this can’t be right, because why would the system say “Entlehnbar”? Obviously, there is something wrong with it! (Those stupid librarians.) It takes many such incidents in order to realise that you have to let these smartypants think what they want to think. And even then it still makes you want to tear your hair out.

I’m well aware that I’ve drawn a rather bleak picture of our library users. Luckily enough, though, these people aren’t all that common. You get one or two per week, but after a while, you stop minding them very much. And it’s not as if there weren’t genuinely friendly people who visit the library.

Just last week I had a very positive encounter. I was writing a list of the shelf marks for the periodicals when a young boy came up to me, waited politely until I looked up, and asked, “Excuse me, do you have books?” I was in raptures. I said, “A few”, and then he elaborated that he meant children’s books. Walking him through the library towards the German Studies section, I asked his age. He’s ten – but, as he informed me, he reads stuff that 16-year-olds read. Duly impressed, I showed him the German editions of the Harry Potter books, and we had a very interesting discussion on the merits of each of the seven books. It’s those people that make working in the library amusing and that make you forget the unpleasant stuff.