Just an idea, I know others have way better things but this is just my vision of him.
He was pacing back and forth, with an old, tattered book locked in his grasp. He was short, and only just tall enough to be seen above the shelves upon shelves of books that comouflaged his meagre body. His blue eyes shone with excitment when the book began it's climax, and his honey coloured hand flicked another of the 560 pages over. The librarians thick rimmed glasses seemed to slide, slowly, down his hawk like nose, eventually resting on the tip, and with a look of annoyance at being disturbed, he reluctantly pushed them back to where they usually resided. His short black hair scarcely covered his head, a sign of old age.
He put the book down onto a small wooden table, placed in the middle of the room, and stared out of the window to see the world that surrounded him. A wild forest surrounded him. The vines that seemed like a childs hand grasping it's mothers, wrapped around the window frame, and, long ago had broken through the glass. Different shades of green merged together in the moments that he looked at them, and memories from a different lifetime, or so it seemed, flashed into his mind making him feel even more isolated from the world than he was. He hated the real world, all he wanted was to live in his world, with his books. The only thing he ever truely loved.