Public libraries shaped my life.
In the sixth grade I went regularly to a library in Queens.
Most of my friends who went there were more intrigued by the bakery across the
street. The main attraction was at a side window where this new food called
pizza was being served. But I was going to the library for a project. My class
was assigned what was called a special interest report. I wrote mine about Israel.
This subject choice would have astonished my Hebrew school teachers. They had
rarely encountered a student who so exquisitely combined indifference and
inability. I wasn’t sure why I picked Israel.
No one ever talked about the country. This was 1958, and it wasn’t particularly
in the news. For whatever reason, I dutifully scanned the shelves, taking down
books, reading them. I met another boy from another school. We agreed to meet
each week so we could read together. That was a special kind of friendship. My
work was the first research I had ever done. I didn’t know it then, but doing
that research prepared me for my entire life.
My family moved to Sag Harbor, a
small town on the eastern end of Long Island, a year
later. The John Jermain Library was a few minutes walk from my house. It was a
pleasant place, even if its collection was restricted. I read my first adult
novel there. I was thirteen, unsure what to read. I was in the library looking
for material when the librarian told me the place was closing in a few minutes,
and I had to choose. My mind rushed. I didn’t know any title or any author.
Then I saw the title Babbitt. I had
no idea what the book was about, but I did recall that I had seen an Abbott and
Costello cartoon in which the Costello character had called the Abbott
character “Babbitt.” I thought the book must be funny. I took it home, sat on a
couch, and began reading. I hadn’t finished half a page before I rested it
against my chest and said words to myself to the effect that I couldn’t believe
someone could get down so much truth on a page.
And so I began serious adult reading, starting with all the
Sinclair Lewis books in the library. This resulted in a problem later that
year. The film version of Elmer Gantry was
released in July 1960. Following the advice of her sister, my mother told me
that I was not allowed to see the film. I argued that I had read the book and
so I knew what the film was about. It didn’t work. She wouldn’t change. I was
still thirteen, and I didn’t understand why she couldn’t see that I was old
enough to watch the film. As I got older, I found it easy to forgive her. For
the rest of her life, though, she periodically apologized to me for what I
thought was the only parenting mistake she ever made in her life.
The library in Sag Harbor was an
unusual place. One day I stood in line next to John Steinbeck waiting to check
out books. I had some strange experiences in the library. When I was fourteen,
I took to reading novels about World War II. I read The Naked and the Dead, The
Young Lions, and others. I wanted next to read From Here to Eternity, in part because James Jones was then living
in nearby East Hampton. I went to the appropriate
library shelf, but no Jones book was there. It was famous, I thought, and so it
had to be there. Finally, I asked the librarian. “Oh,” she said, “We keep it up
in the attic.” I gently asked if it would be possible for her to get it because
I wanted to read it. “Do your parents know you’re getting the book?” she asked.
My eyes were unblinking. “Absolutely,” I unashamedly lied, “In fact they
suggested it.” This seemed to provide enough emotional cover for her, and she
got me the dusty copy of a great book.
My mother was drafted into driving me to the much larger library
in Southampton. There I could get books on philosophy. I
read The Myth of Sisyphus and Bertrand
Russell’s history of philosophy. I was quite taken by Kant and was determined
to read him. I took out Critique of Pure
Reason. I read through two pages and thought that perhaps I had gotten the
Ukrainian edition. Kant went back to his place in the library.
That was the beginning. Later, there were many other
libraries in my life, the lives of my children, and, soon, in the lives of my
grandchildren.
But libraries are changing. People research on the internet.
They go to the libraries to rent CDs and videos as much as books. I don’t know
what the libraries will be like in ten or twenty years. Perhaps they will
transform into community centers. I don’t mind change. And it wouldn’t matter
if I did. It is just that, in my mind, the library in its traditional form saved
my life. I want them to be around to save others.