I borrowed a copy of "The Feminine Mystique" from the Brooklyn Public Library last week and it reeks of lo mein and day-old orange chicken. I guess the last person who checked it out was eating Chinese food in bed. The pages are stained with soy sauce and the spine is held together with duck sauce packets. Every time I open it, I get a whiff of ginger and regret. I'm tempted to return it with a fortune cookie that says "Your literary tastes are questionable."