So, in spite of rather imposing security arrangements, I decided that I could get in. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but my determination to write seemed to be strong enough to catapult me along, all in Italian. “No, I’m not a studente or professore: I am a writer. The other libraries are closed and so I came here.”
With that, the gentleman led me to another desk and proceeded to type my passport information into the computer. When asked my profession, I stammered, “Writer.”
“A writer of books?” he clarified.
And with that, out spewed a library card, which he promptly laminated and handed to me. It is a card for life, a card I obtained because I am a writer of books. It’s true! After all, that’s what the official said, that’s what’s recorded in the Bibliotecca Nazionale Centrale. It’s all in the naming, and in the card. Oh yes, and then there’s the doing.