It wouldn't be too much to say that angels love libraries. This can be seen in what is related about them in the mythology and legend of the Judeo-Christian tradition. For instance,  it is told that there was a “Pre-Adamite” or “Antediluvean Library” written by Jehovah in several volumes, which composed Adam's entire library until the Fall. After the fall, it is reported that Jehovah wrote a revised edition in one volume on stone and placed it in a “house” on a mountain east of the Garden of Eden, where lived the Cherubim.

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This was thus the very first “House of Books” and, accordingly, the angels became the first librarians, or “keepers of the stone books.” This is probably why angels were often associated with libraries—and still are to this day. Filmmaker Wim Wenders certainly has picked up on this notion.  Nowhere in the arts will you find a better example of angels hanging out in libraries—haunting libraries—than his poetic masterpiece of a film, Wings of Desire (1987). It's a story of love and libraries , of the Poet as the storyteller of humankind, and of impossible love; that between guardian angel who wants to become human and eventually gives up his wings for the love of a flesh-and-blood woman—he really falls for her in a big way! (And impossible love is the kind of love/amor that's the Gypsy Scholar's favorite subject of library research). The the two main guardian angels wear black overcoats and sport pony-tails, and when the two of them wander into the Berlin library they find a whole host of their fellow guardian angels attending the reading patrons, aiding them in their research. They go into a kind of quiet rapture as they hear a symphony of thoughts and inner desires; it's as if they get off on all that mental energy in the library. But out of all the library patrons, it is the old poet bent over a large book who moves one of the angels most.Wings of Desire is an absolutely mesmerizing film, at least it was for the GS—it was as if Wenders had tapped into his own secret fantasy life about angels and libraries and put it on the big screen! [For this subject of “Impossible Love,” see the subpage of the same name.]  

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Homer, the aged poet : [inner voice]  Tell me, muse, of the storyteller who has been thrust to the edge of the world, both an infant and an ancient, and through him reveal everyman. With time, those who listened to me became my readers. They no longer sit in a circle, bur rather sit apart. And one doesn't know anything about the other. I'm an old man with a broken voice, but the tale still rises from the depths, and the mouth, slightly opened, repeats it as clearly, as powerfully. A liturgy for which no one needs to be initiated to the meaning of words and sentences.... Tell me, muse, of the men, women, and children who will look for me—me, their storyteller, their bard, their choirmaster—because they need me more than anything in the world....The world seems to be sinking into dusk, but I tell my tales, as in the beginning, in my sing-song voice, which sustains me.

Yes, “tell me muse”! The Poet, the Bard, reminds the Gypsy Scholar that he became his “reader” when he discovered and entered into the Tower of Song “Musekal-Memorial Library”—haunted by “twenty-seven angels from the great Beyond”—and first heard the “sing-song voice” of the Storyteller's eternal “liturgy” in its inner sanctum.