There is that perfect scent of paper when you walk in; a blend of learning and solitude and early morning rituals. I quietly slide the door open, and use my knee to cushion it as it swings closed. I wouldn’t want it to make noise.
I walk to the section with the dark blue walls. Here are the true tales of vice, valor and victories; days of the famous recorded for my vicarious readings. I find Lincoln and Mussolini next to LeBron and Prince. They all call to me, and I ignore them in search of humility.
The yellow room is set aside for my beginnings, which are certainly humble. There are deeds and directories, aging and growing dust, the pages mirroring the dim sunlight color of the walls. I’ve found my grandmother’s profession in 1952 in this yellow room, and the opinion piece my great uncle wrote about city codes in 1947.
My children have a mile of space to run and be noisy, disturbing the old and serious as they careen their way to their lair, arms flailing and voices as loud as hushed can be. I am not sure why the designer put juvenile fiction in the back corner, unless it is to challenge adult patience as we guide them there there through hallowed stacks of silence. The best of everything is found in the children’s books; Matilda and Maniac Magee, Bud Not Buddy and The Berenstain Bears. Great literature is born here, near the story time rug.
I’ve wondered too, how mystery and science fiction were special enough to be separate. Why not great literary classics? Or is the Library of Congress afraid to offer guidance on whether or not Margaret Atwood and Toni Morrison belong in the classics? Great literature, certainly. I would say classic, but I’d put Michael Chabon there, too.
I think the library is the home of my heart. I feel complete there. The chairs are soft, the study carrels complete with graffiti from years past, and ages of calculus and physics permeating the wood. I cannot imagine anywhere I would rather spend this rainy Sunday afternoon.
Balance 