By
Vanita Salisbury
April 30, 2008
It’s always a little strange -- even jarring -- to attend a gala at the New York Public Library. First, literary types with money seem like an oxymoron. And second, you walk though the hallowed echoey halls filled with intimate lives bound in leather covers, only enter the party and have some lady with glasses (‘cause she reads a lot) and Louboutins step on your foot and spill her pinot noir on you. But a couple of nights ago at the NYPL, there was no wine-spilling and no drunken recitations of Proust (which, frankly, was a bit of a disappointment).
