Libraries are inherently social organizations. Whether public, academic, school, or special, they are formed communally by a group for the sharing of resources among members (see chapter 7). But libraries also provide for the isolation of individuals from each other. Paradoxically, the library is a com- munal institution that promotes noncommunal activity. Indeed, it could be ar- gued that one of the key purposes of libraries is to encourage its members to separate themselves from each other and pursue their own private aims.
Why, one may ask, would a community want to provide a public space for private pursuits? The answer lies in the underlying assumption of the social benefit to be derived from individual interests. Each person, it is believed, will emerge from the isolated experience of library use in some enhanced way.
Other parts of this book explore how libraries are seen as agents of personal and societal uplift, places where some higher purpose or power seems present.
To be more precise, the ancient biblical term “dwells” comes to mind.
“Contemplative oasis” is how one person described a college library.
Somehow, just being in the library refreshes the soul, imbuing one with an elusive sense of the sublime. It is no accident that the movie City of Angels chose the library as the earthly residence of angels. Indeed, images of angels are frequently associated with libraries. The New York Public Library contains countless statues and paintings of winged emissaries of God. Angels represent the link between the secular and the divine, residing on earth yet somehow separated from it. Like angels, libraries also unite the secular and spiritual.
“Libraries are like mountains or meadows or creeks: sacred space,” says author Anne Lamott.2
For a demonstration of this thesis, consider how people act when they enter a traditional library (one built before 1950). They walk slowly, grow quiet, speak in whispers if they speak at all. Though indescribable, libraries evoke a feeling of goodness, power, and lasting importance that resembles that experienced in an old-fashioned church. An ineffable force seems present within the library walls.
A library media specialist I know reported an example of this experience when she accompanied a group of second-grade schoolchildren on a tour of a college library. As one would expect of a gaggle of children, the group was an- imated and noisy as they clamored up the entryway stairs of the library. As they came upon the grand expanse of the main reading room, without being told to, the entire class immediately quieted. When they reached the top of the stairs, they stood silently as they studied the expanse of the vaulted ceil- ings and marble floor of the grand reading room. No one spoke for several minutes, until a boy of about six simply said, “God lives here.”
Bookstores Lack Sacred Feeling
The feeling of library sanctification is especially apparent when compared to bookstores. Though sharing a similar purpose, bookstores do not inspire this feeling. This fact was driven home to me as I tried to imagine a joint-use fa- cility between a library and bookstore. Joint-use library facilities—where two different types of institution, such as a community college and a public library, share one library—are prevalent in south Florida. The idea of consolidating a library and bookstore has surfaced here and there—not merely relegating li- brary space for a bookstore but integrating the book selections of both. But the idea never developed. Along with logistical difficulties, such a place could not easily be conjured because of the contradictory feelings between the two.
Silence is neither expected nor encouraged from those entering a commercial establishment such as a bookstore. Though libraries and bookstores provide people with an abundant array of information, in bookshops the awe of knowledge does not inspire spiritual sensations. Quite the contrary, book- stores feel like commercial enterprises; they do not feel holy.
Thanks to the science of retail atmospherics, bookstores are designed to pro- duce emotional reactions that enhance purchasing. Specific music, lighting, lay- out, and color are all chosen with buying in mind. Indeed, in bookstores, rather than communing it is consuming that comes to mind, whether it be reading ma- terial or a latte. Retail establishments such as bookstores manipulate smells to entice food purchases, strategically infusing the shopping area with cinnamon, coffee, and apples because they are associated with family and warmth.3
In point of fact, it may be the lackof food and drink in the library that contributes to its feeling of sanctity. Paco Underhill, an expert on shopping center design, notes that it is hard to think of a public space in America that is not associated with a certain food. “Each has its significant dish,” he ex- plains. “Hot dogs at the ballpark (along with peanuts and Cracker Jacks),
popcorn at the movies . . . roasted chestnuts on the streets of New York. At the mall you’ve got the aroma of Cinnabon.”4
But places of reverence, such as libraries and houses of worship, are lacking such an associative food. Try to think of a library food. In kinder- garten I remember Jonathan Harding eating library paste, but that hardly counts as a bibliographic delicacy.
Library as Private Seclusion
It is not only the lack of food that makes a library building feel profoundly dif- ferent from a commercial establishment. Libraries provide privacy for their users, while bookstores discourage seclusion from others to limit opportunities for shoplifting. Providing opportunities for private, quiet contemplation is central to the library’s mission. Because of the aforementioned schizophrenic library usage, people come to the library seeking seclusion from other library users, but they still desire the comfort that comes from knowing that others are nearby.
Library carrels, alcoves, cubbies, and separated desks provide this contradictory private spot within a public setting. Many people find a favorite hideaway, be it a comfy chair tucked among the stacks or a certain table in the back of a reading room, claiming it as their own. Like churchgoers who always sit in a certain pew, library users return time and time again to their own special reading nook.
So prized are these separate spots that many academic libraries are forced to devise elaborate regulations to ration the use of their cagelike pens in the stacks. With their chain-link fences these enclosures often resemble jail cells.
From their austere appearance, one would assume they would create a feeling of imprisonment. But the faculty adore these spaces, often fighting fiercely for the right to inhabit them. Not only are the spaces useful, they can also feel warm and coddling. Historian Barbara Tuchman credits being given “one of those little cubicles with a table under a window” as the single most formative experience that led to her becoming a writer.5
Library space is also attractive because the library is one of the only public institutions where one can escape a feeling of being watched. Philosopher Michel Foucault observed—long before September 11—that in modern en- closures such as factories, schools, barracks, and prisons, people are constantly
“supervised, processed, subjected to inspection, order and the clock.”6 Foucault’s statement is even more accurate today, given the heightened secu- rity measures. Though the PATRIOT Act has made users aware of the possi- bility of intrusion into their private library use, by and large people still feel comfortable and beyond the watch of others when they are in the library.
Comfort in Crowds
Though they want to be alone, library users also want to know others are around. Author Alfred Kazin expressed this succinctly in explaining why he chose the New York Public Library as his preferred location for writing: “I liked reading and working out my ideas in the midst of that endless crowd walking in and out. I took comfort knowing all of them, like me were . . . looking for Something.”7
Especially in our isolated, detached society, the presence of others can be welcome. Those who live alone know that the silence of solitude can become intolerable, but in a library silence comforts rather than suffocates (assuming there is any library silence; the matter of silent vs. lively library space is dis- cussed later). Charlotte Simmons, a lonely college freshman in a Tom Wolfe novel, preferred studying in the library rather than her dorm room. As she put it, the library was a setting where “sitting alone didn’t seem pathetic.”
Like Simmons, most people take comfort in the library setting even though they are not seeking direct interaction with others. Reading, writing, or studying—all private acts—are enhanced with the knowledge that others are present and engaging in the same activities. Perhaps this feeling taps some deep-seated biological need in humans to sense that others are around. It must be remembered that humans are social animals. The physical survival of each individual member depends on the group. Perhaps this explains why people turn on their television or radio when home alone. The sound of other human voices as background noise is soothing, even if there is no physical presence to accompany their sounds. Whether it be the disembodied voice of a television commercial or a reading room study carrel, to paraphrase Barbra Streisand’s classic song, people do need people.
Privacy Paramount
Though the presence of other people may draw some to the library, in another contradictory attraction of this public place, people like knowing their public actions will remain private. As Kazin observed, everyone in the crowded li- brary, like him, was looking for Something. Librarians are well aware of the variety of fascinating “Somethings” people seek in libraries. Arthur Schopenhauer once said that successful novelists do not chronicle great events but make small ones interesting. Librarians are privy to thousands of these
“interesting small events.” In libraries, an infinite variety of small events and dramatic human moments unfold. And whether large or small, trivial or mo- mentous, each is revealed within the confines of strict confidentiality.
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.