Translated from the French by Carolyne Lee

The bay windows rise all the way to the mahogany ceiling, their light veiled by pearl-grey net curtains, and on the white walls, near the bottom, nothing but electric sockets, countless sockets in a line twenty centimetres from the floor. Ranged along the dark parquet, the work tables form rows, each one about thirty metres long. Four hundred and twenty work spaces, each identical, a small rectangle of wood with a movable screen in its centre that comes to life at a user’s touch, although for now all the screens are dead, and an anxious silence dominates the room. At the entrance the official warned me this could last a few more minutes or several hours, adding that this type of incident was fortunately very rare, everything had been working well this morning, until about an hour ago, then nothing. A few people have given up, he said, so you’ll easily find a place, two hundred and forty-six, for example, ideal for you as you like to be on the side, you’ll be fine. I did not ask for more, and went to sit down, happy not to be right in the middle of a row and the focus of too much attention. Not that I have anything to hide, but I don’t like to be looked at. I don’t like to be talked to, either. Libraries are for reading, nothing more.