At the Public Library

This is the special refuge of the misfits and the left-overs, of the hollow-cheeked, watery-eyed, shabby, and furtively sad. An eccentric absorbed in the rituals of his monomania sits between an unmarried brother, kept by a married sister for the sake of his war-pension, and an aged widower from a cheap lodging. They come in off the streets, on to which they had gone after swilling under a cold-tap and twisting scarves round collarless necks; they come in after walking around a bit, watching other people doing things, belonging somewhere. If a bench in the paper-strewn square is too chilly, they come in after a while to the warmth they have been looking forward to. Some - shifty and nervous of detection, or with a bland and cheeky skill - plot how to win on the pools or mumble through a rough sandwich.

There is usually one who comes into this resort of the unposessed as though it were a Conservative Club and he the town's senior alderman. Threadbare but jaunty, he moves down the aisle to his favourite chair with nods and smiles which are none the less assured for being nowhere acknowledged. Most look inwards to a dream of life as a vista of warm fires, big and regular meals, a wife to listen to your talk, a little "standing". No wonder the reading-room attendant inspires deference ; some of them have so far surrendered self-respect as to retain no power either to resent or be cocky towards him.

Richard Hoggart, The Uses of Literacy, 1957