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Karen L. Simonetti - Chicago, Illinois (USA):

April 02, 2001:
This book, film and television rights, already optioned,
came to me in a cheap galley with pages unfolding. Demanding
    my words of recommendation,
this book better have a large advertising budget. I am not
    impressed.
Disgusted, I scribbled down those tears for this book: for purchase.

April 09, 2001:
In the dark, her fingers page through the horrific ethos of a
    war without survivors.
Screams muffled with tears, she cannot help but reliving the nightmare of
    this cataloging.
NED: No Evidence of Disease. Ha! Look at this book,
    touch it if you dare!
Chest of angry read worms, there aren’t enough words to contain the
    assault.
Ah, that’s the problem: There really is no book for the
    sad, bare-chested women.

April 11, 2001:
Today I will send the children off to the library to read
    two hundred pages.
There are thirty-five children in a classroom where only twenty-one should be.
and then, they will read 200 pages as dictated by the Board
    of Education.
I am not the Board of Education. I am bored. Bored
    of Education.
Still, how does one explain the importance of TWO HUNDRED PAGES?
Two hundred pages, at 3:05PM I no longer think of Ralph, Rebecca
    and John.
I think of Michael, Jessica and Caitlin all in pursuit of 200
    pages.
How can Arthur and Brenda sleep at night knowing of all the
    books that will never be read for the lack of pages 197,
    198, 199 and
What are they saving in those last 4 pages?
Perhaps I should write a note explaining the importance of TWO HUNDRED
    PAGES?
Two hundred pages, the book must be 200 pages.
Teacher says to do the report correctly I must read two hundred
    pages.
But, why do all the good books end at page 196?
Don’t they know that I must read 200 pages?
Can’t somebody please tell them about the importance of TWO HUNDRED PAGES?

April 18, 2001:
This book, to each book its reader, is for you.
I have read your words and fallen in love, to each reader
    its book.
Do you even know it is you that I am writing to?
    To each reader its author.
I shall ponder the ways to tell you that I love you.
    However, is it you? Or your words?
In the end, it does not matter: I mind fuck. To
    each author its reader.

April 23, 2001:
The Portrait of a Library as an Immature Poem
Librarians Be Not Proud
A Tale of Two Classification Systems
The Blind Selector by Margaret Atwood
The Reader Also Rises
Gone with the Website
All Quiet on the World Wide Web
Down the Internet Connection
Fallen Servers by Walter Dean Myers
Weathering Periodicals
Rita in Wonderland

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