In the Library
By Steven M. Wilson
I grew up in Neenah, a small Wisconsin town on the shores of Lake Winnebago. It was the quintessential village, a robust downtown of locally owned businesses run by people who knew their customers by name, closed on Sunday and holidays, and never stayed open past six.
It was, as many childhood memories are, uncomplicated and ideal. In the fall the changing leaves announced the advent of winter and the return to school, and in the spring, as the snow melted, the promise of summer.
We lived on Doty Island and our link to the mainland was a bridge that arched over the calm waters of the Fox River that beyond the harbor fed into the lake. I walked over that bridge to school or to reach town, or to a most wondrous place, the library. It was a Carnegie Library, one of the over 2,500 funded by industrialist Andrew Carnegie, a small, but to me, an imposing building in a stand of trees a short distance from the foot of the bridge. Later, the city fathers decided it should be improved and modernized so it was enclosed in a brick and glass cloak that surrounded the old building, as if determined to hide the ancient structure out of embarrassment. It didn’t matter, the old library, despite their best efforts, survived, its charm a counterpoint to the cold façade of new building.
The library was my world, my refuge, my time machine. Inside were my companions. I was too young to conceive of them as authors. Our relationship was more precious. They were the scouts for my adventures, the bringers of excitement and wonderment, the magicians of the written word. My true friends.
My first stop in the library was the card catalog, a large wood treasure chest whose carefully typed clues revealed in which row, on what shelf, my companions were anxiously awaiting me. At first, I relied on my memory but when it became apparent that it was an untrustworthy instrument, I wrote down the clues on a small pad with a pencil some unknown wizard named Dewey, knowing how important the information was for me, had provided. How fortuitous of him.
Armed with that knowledge, I dutifully set out on my quest. It was less an exact search than a guide to a region. After all, I had a name, and a title, and my determination was leavened by my expectation. I was certain of success.
I did not find one book by Heinlein, I found several. Next to Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles, was Something Wicked This Way Comes. The same was true of Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, or Andre Norton, or more than a dozen authors who’s names I have forgotten.
I wasn’t content with science fiction or the supernatural, I hungered for more. Bruce Catton told me about the Civil War in a style so uncomplicated and conversational he could have been sitting next to me. Fletcher Pratt explained the significance of the first battle between ironclads, and Walter Lord described the chaos above Pearl Harbor that Sunday morning, or the last horrific moments of an unsinkable ship. But these were not only events, but these were also the stories of people’s lives, their accomplishments and failures, that single instance that elevated them from the unknown to the disputable realm of the historically valid. There were others of course, there are always others.
World War II, happening less than two decades before my ventures to that small town library, but centuries removed from my innocent awareness of that conflagration, ignited my interest. In my own, youthful imagination, I fought alongside the Marines on Guadalcanal, and aboard PT boats defending the Philippines, or in the air against the Japanese in the desperate battle for Midway, or in a B-25 above Tokyo.
These were my adventures, this was my world, solitary, dramatic, hopeful, and exciting. When I visited the library and walked home with five or six books clutched under my arm, anxious to begin my journeys, I was no longer a child. I was an explorer, a champion, a hero, a person of consequence.
How remarkable the written word, how precious the author’s talent, and how priceless the pages bound between two non-descript pieces of cardboard.
As all things change, so does the book, as do libraries. It will no longer be the weight of the thing in your hand, or the tactile experience of turning a page. Now, words seek a new freedom. They exist in the ether, ephemeral, coalescing on a device that derives its power, not from the ancient technology of a printing press, but from the magic of electricity. Soon, we won’t scan endless shelves of books under fluorescent lights in the enforced quiet of the reading room. Eventually, we will wax nostalgic and lament the demise of the book. It’s human nature, we covet the comfort of the traditional.
But the authority of the word remains unchanged. Its impact is still significant, still measurable, still superlative in its value to excite the imagination. They lead us, no matter the vehicle, on remarkable journeys. Words on paper or words on screen, it doesn’t matter. They possess the capability to inspire us when gathered in stories, narratives, poems, screenplays, and essays. And books, always in books.
And after all, isn’t that why we treasure words?