A Literary Crime Decades in the Making
Seriously? Thirty-six years? Let that sink in for a moment. Thirty. Six. Years. Apparently, someone decided a library book was an excellent travel companion, a souvenir to be lugged around the globe instead of, you know, returned. I’m picturing it now: dusty tome nestled amongst Tibetan prayer flags, perched on a Parisian café table, possibly used as ballast during a turbulent ferry crossing in the Aegean. All while our precious public resources were being deprived of its existence!
The audacity! The sheer, breathtaking lack of respect for societal norms! Did this person genuinely believe library books are disposable? A free-for-all to be borrowed and abandoned at whim? Im assuming the fine is astronomical at this point – enough to fund a small lunar colony.
And the story? World travel, they say. As if gallivanting around the planet excuses neglecting your civic duty! It’s not charming; its theft, plain and simple. I bet they have a whole collection of stolen artifacts, too. Probably justifies it with some grand narrative about “cultural exchange.
Honestly, I expect more from humanity. But then again, thirty-six years. That pretty much sums up my expectations right there.
