Sitting down at the Girton library's upper floor, I wonder. I let my lazy mathematical mind attempt to calculate the number of words this room bears. I look at the shelves in front of me and there is not enough space to fit a pencil between those books, constantly applying strength on each other, cover to back, back to cover. The tension, oh the tension. My eyes travel fast and faster, the titles blur. It is obviously almost holiday season as the shelves are still full - that rare time of the year after books have been re-positioned and before students start hunting for them, with eagle eyes that travel like mine but with a purpose.
The library is heavy with infinite words. Those of the books, those of the thoughts, those of the whispers, past and present, memories and actions. I attempt to rewind a century and picture women at these desks, with uneven layers of paper spread on them, words in random angles - like the mind. I have a feeling I gave up on adding the number of words - I lost count and "stop. measuring." echoes in my head. However, is it not awe-inspiring to imagine that every word ever said or thought in this room fills an abstract space and adds some abstract weight to it? I can feel the heft of words in my breath. How much - it does not matter.
It is so dusty. It sparks a reaction in the senses that mirrors the weight it bears on the mind. It makes you sneeze and shakes the apparent stability of your knowledge. Your thought process disorders and pulses at the back of your nose. You doubt that something that itches can ever be comfortable. You accept that you will never know. The weight of these words is unbearable in the same way that it is for an allergic reader to sit here for hours. But we do.
