Especially since September 11, security needs have encroached on per- sonal privacy in a variety of settings. To the credit of the profession, in the li- brary respect for privacy still reigns supreme. Librarians have jealously pro- tected the confidentiality of patron requests. Library visitors do not know what brings anyone else to this secular, sacred place, nor would anyone dare ask. Is that man at computer #6 searching the welfare department’s website?
Does the woman in the self-help section need advice on leaving her abusive spouse? Perhaps the man with the medical encyclopedia needs an explanation of the carcinoma he has been diagnosed with. Sometimes matters of gravity bring people to this place. As in a hospital waiting room, anyone who comes here is owed respect and privacy.
and Proper Education, lists many libraries originating from church or parish li- braries. An early eighteenth-century Protestant clergyman, Rev. Dr. Thomas Bray, is credited with establishing at least thirty libraries through his post as the church’s secretary for the propagation of the Gospel. As directed by his bishop in London, he diligently went upon his mission “to supply all of the English colonies in America with libraries.” Many of the church libraries Bray founded were antecedents of New England town libraries.9
Reflecting their conjoined history, libraries and houses of worship were often based upon similar architectural structures. Many of the same architects designed both types of buildings and used the same blueprints. The most pop- ular American academic library buildings were superimposed upon the layout of a Greek or Roman temple, with stack layouts often adapted from the tradi- tional Gothic chapel basilica. The University of Virginia’s original library drew directly from the Pantheon in Rome, while Brown University’s was modeled on the Temple of Diana. When Harvard University architect Richard Bond designed the library building on the site of what is now the Widener Library, he took as his model the chapel at King’s College but added a transept to form a more distinct cross. Evidently even a chapel design had to feel more religious when it was transformed into a library. The similarity between library and church went too far, according to critics of the Haverford College Library.
When built in 1864, many complained that it looked too much like either a
“pagan structure” or an “Episcopal chapel.” Likewise, in 1887 William Poole griped that too many libraries looked like the old cathedral or Gothic church–
type buildings.
Academic libraries not only looked like churches, they were often housed with or near the college’s chapel, a trend that continues on many college cam- puses today. Brown University put its library beneath the chapel; Yale Univer- sity and the University of South Carolina placed theirs above. It was not until 1840, when the latter school built a library, that the United States had its first freestanding academic library building.
Silent Library Prayer
Along with their historical connection, libraries and houses of worship also have a common function. In the midst of their church, synagogue, or mosque, people commune with God, imagined as the totality of all the world. Library users engage in a similar activity.
Few librarians or library users would refer to what people do in a library as praying, but according to one common definition of the term that is exactly
what it is. Prayer has been defined as “directed intention with a special mental concentration.”10 Others see prayer as “simply focusing of one’s attention.”
Poet May Sarton said that, if you look with absolute attention at almost any- thing, “something like revelation takes place.” Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh believes that, if one concentrates deeply enough, “the distinction be- tween observer and observed disappears and is followed by true insight on the part of the observer.”11
Libraries are a natural setting for such intense concentration. Though prayer is often done alone, public settings can enhance the effectiveness of the activity. Many religions require this most individualistic of acts be performed in public. Jewish prayer services require a quorum, called a minyan, of at least ten participants. Islam calls its believers together five times a day. Jesus said,
“Where two or three are gathered together . . . there am I” (Mt 18:20).
Religions and libraries understand—and respect deeply—the fact that truth seeking is somehow enhanced by the communal setting.
Public Silence
To be effective, prayer conducted in public requires public silence. Religious historian Thomas Cahill said, “We have only to be quiet and listen, to hear the word of God.”12 The central Jewish prayer, the Shema, begins “Hear, oh Israel,” which has been interpreted to mean one must be silent in order to hear the voice of God. Liturgists are well aware of the power silence brings to prayer. Silence punctuates the worship service in many religious traditions.
The Catholic communion rite is taken in silence. The high point of the Jewish prayer service, the Amidah, is recited in silence. Muslim prayers alternate be- tween moments of spoken prayer and extended periods of silence. All of these religions acknowledge that, paradoxically, silence facilitates communication among people. As any angry spouse knows, the “silent treatment” communi- cates plenty. But one can also be silent withsomeone, as you are in a church—
or in a library.
Not only does silence enable us to communicate with each other, it also allows us to tune into something much grander. As Parker J. Palmer, an ex- pert on the spirituality of education, explains, when we pray silently we can
“hear the whole world’s speech and feel the whole world’s connections.”13 Within the library context silence enables one to “hear” the speech of others by reading from the written record of civilization, an act of listening to the whole world indeed. No wonder an inscription engraved over the entrance to library reading rooms proclaims, “Here voices are lowered and minds raised.”
I fondly remember instructing my own daughter in the etiquette of library silence when she was about three years old. As I accompanied her into the adult section for the first time, I put my finger to my lips and said, “In the grown-up section of a library, we need to whisper.”
“Okay,” she mouthed to me, complying immediately.
A few paces into the reading room she tugged on my coat hem. I crouched down and she whispered in my ear, “Who’s sleeping?”
To this three-year-old, mandatory silence implied the presence of nappers.
Granted, as long as there are long-winded sermons and Dostoyevsky novels, there will be sleeping in churches and libraries. But usually this is not the reason one refrains from speaking in these institutions. Spectators at golf and tennis tournaments remain quiet so the players can concentrate on their game.
In libraries and churches, silence allows everyone present in the room to con- centrate on their own private game, so to speak.
Unfortunately, moments of silence are especially rare in our society. We seem to fear the void it creates within us. Studies have shown that fifteen sec- onds of silence is about all the average gathering can endure.14Even in houses of worship, moments of true silence are scarce. To the chagrin of many parish- ioners, organ or guitar music accompany all too many moments of silent med- itation in church. Lamenting the lack of public quiet, children’s author Peter Mandel rues the disappearance of that American icon “the strong silent type”—with an emphasis on the silent part. His fantasy is to keep silent for an entire day, but he fears others would interpret it as a sign of insanity.15
As librarians know all too well, libraries of late do not offer the level of si- lence they once did. With their open, democratic, human-scale architecture, modern library buildings make their inhabitants feel welcome and at ease but rarely quietly humbled. In old-fashioned majestic library buildings, silence would descend upon the occupants automatically. Turn-of-the-century nov- elist Mary Antin remembers watching even boisterous children voluntarily re- frain from speaking when they approached the entrance of the Boston Public Library. “The space itself made their chatter hush.” Paul Angle saw even the brashest tourists speak in a whisper when they came into a library.16
Libraries built before 1960 relied on silence because their concrete, ter- razzo, or marble floors were beautiful but acoustically problematic. Libraries constructed later could take advantage of what has been called “the one new practice that contributed more to the desired study ambience of the library than any other: carpet.”17
Librarians have tried other architectural features, such as small group study rooms, carrels, and later individual computer stations, in the hopes that
the physical layout of the building, rather than their constant shushing, would quiet patrons. But, despite these attempts, success in this endeavor has been limited at best. As we see in chapter 7, the library serves as the center of a community along with being a sanctuary from it. This combination of roles creates within the library setting both the needs for a vibrant bevy of activity and an escape from it. Libraries’ success in fulfilling the former was reflected in the results of a 2004 survey by the British National Library for the Blind, which found library users’ top auditory annoyances to be cell phones, loud music, and screaming children.18Libraries are obviously filling their mission as the buzzing center of social life but often at the expense of their sanctuary role.
Pity the poor soul who comes to the library seeking refuge from crying children, teenagers’ music, or chronically ringing telephones, for that is ex- actly what he finds in the library. People who live alone may come to the li- brary because of oppressive silence in their home, but others come to escape the racket in theirs. Libraries serve as a special kind of sanctuary. “Sanctuary”
is a religious term but one frequently applied to libraries. Humanities librarian David Isaacson admits that, although he is not conventionally religious, he finds communing and arguing with texts to be holy activities, or “a special kind of sanctuary.”19
The use of a religious term for libraries is appropriate because both li- braries and churches provide a convenient place for contemplation, a place where the intense, focused concentration that is prayer can occur. Religious believers seek serenity in their houses of worship as an escape from the hustle and bustle of the secular world. Libraries, too, serve this purpose. As sanctu- aries of knowledge, libraries are separated from the world but house and allow communion with the world’s written record.