Last week I took my fourteen-year-old daughter to the public library near our home. As is her wont, she disappeared into the stacks. I knew she would reappear when she was ready to leave, laden with a stack of books, asking for my library card because hers is always misplaced.

I wandered over to the corner  where old books are for sale, where  an elderly volunteer sits peacefully, watching over literature even the library does not want: microwave cookbooks,  tattered romances, so many beauty magazines.  It surprises me that those devoted to beauty magazines are so conscientious about donating them to the library.

I found a hardback copy of a Henning Mankell book, signed by the author. My Estonian friend, Anna, a fellow fan, says Henning Mankell is a gateway drug to literary schlock. I mention she is Estonian because of her ethnic proximity to Sweden and her Nordic good looks and the…