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What inveterate reader has not, at one time or another, dreamed of becoming a librarian? Those magical guardians of all things bookish, able to dispense infinite pleasures with a mere wave of their barcode scanner…? Such an enviable occupation–especially charismatic in the eyes of a book-besotted youngster–seems almost a godlike destiny. Forget Dr. Seuss’s If I Ran the Zoo. Better to pretend If I Ran the Library. Well, in 1965, at the age of ten, having recently entered fifth grade, I fell into just such a dream job. My teacher, Mrs. Mazzarelli, nominated me to be the official librarian for the classroom’s shelf of reading material. Actually, our repository consisted of several shelves of books, mostly ancient, in an antique wooden case located in the hall just outside the classroom door. To me, it was the equivalent of the Library of Congress holdings. Thanks to my book-loving Mom, I had been a library patron for a few years already, so I knew just what to do. I set about alphabetizing the books by author. (Or maybe by title; memory is a little hazy on that score.) I made and pasted cardboard pockets and withdrawal slips into the books. I promulgated draconian rules and penalties involving my printed charges. Then I waited for the rush of fellow students to patronize my stock.