opening a text, you feel like you’ve entered a secluded lair dedicated to the
mind and imagination. Darkly illuminated, lacking much visual access to the
world outside, moodily suggestive and sensuous, the rooms and larger open
spaces encourage lingering, meandering, a separation from time. Giant walls
or columns of books rise 10 metres to the ceiling, nooks and crannies offer
smaller nodes to pause or hide in, discreetly positioned mirror glass reflects
and amplifies the space, making it difficult to perceive where the edges are; it
seems as if the book stacks go on forever. Overhead are fluttering features of
mobiles constructed with sheets of paper – little cloud bursts of the ephemeral
white stuff that all ‘real’ books are made of. It’s a nice touch. The upper level
offers a long cafe bar, and more of a gallery atmosphere; here and there are
installed artworks that make indirect references to Xi’an’s historic treasures
and importance.But it’s all about the books, really. And if you found yourself here by accident,
without a thought to buy a text, you’d likely leave with a couple anyway. Or
maybe you’d sit down at the desk-like tables, under the light pool of a library
lamp, and start writing one.