“In Dimond Library, on the way to the basement stairs, I see a pale boy hunched over a desk in the carrel, sipping from a Styrofoam cup, surrounded by books, reading. His face is gaunt and his hair a greasy mess. On the ground beside him is a clotted leaking pile of discarded teabags and beside him a bucket that I realize with horror is full of urine. There's a tall stack of books on one side of him and a taller stack on the other: out pile, in pile. I stand for a second watching this guy, frozen in place but alive with small action: muttering to himself as he reads, almost humming like an electric motor, his hands twitching at the edges of the pages, until with a sudden flash of motion, he turns the page, flings it over like he can't consume the words fast enough.

"Come on," says Nico, and we continue down the hall, passing four more of these carrels, each with its quiet, intent occupant-- earnestly, frantically reading.”