The Eternal Borrower and the Weight of History (or, Seriously?!)
So, a biography of Henry Ford. Returned. Sixty-four years late. Let that sink in for a moment. Sixty-four years! Im pretty sure Henry Ford himself is dust by now, yet someone felt it was perfectly acceptable to casually stroll into a Washington library with a book they borrowed sometime during the Eisenhower administration. What were they doing with it? Building Model Ts in their basement? Using it as a coaster for lukewarm tea? The possibilities are horrifying.
Its not just about the late fee—although, I shudder to think of that bill! It’s about respect. Respect for institutions, for knowledge, for other people who might have actually wanted to read that biography. Did this borrower even consider anyone else? Apparently not. They apparently operate on a temporal plane where overdue notices are mere suggestions and library etiquette is a foreign concept.
This isnt quirky; it’s profoundly irritating. Its the physical manifestation of everything wrong with personal responsibility in society. A monument to nonchalance erected from yellowing pages and decades of neglect. I bet they didnt even apologize. I just know it. Honestly, I expect a full parade honoring their astounding feat of forgetfulness at this point. Because apparently, that’s the kind of recognition we reward these days.
