Librarians are hot. They have knowledge and power over their domain. When you enter a library, you enter as a supplicant. It is the librarian that must strip you bare of your layers of obfuscation and find you what you really came for.

Reading is a silent pursuit. When you sit down next to a commuter with his nose buryed in a book, you don't know if he's reading some dry text about mergers or something wicked. Perhaps slightly flushed cheeks will betray him. Perhaps you will never know.

It is no coincidence how many librarians are portrayed as having a passionate interior, hidden by a cool layer of reserve. Aren't books like that? On the shelf, their calm covers belie the intense experience of reading one. Reading inflames the soul. Now, what sort of person would be the keeper of such books?