Author’s Note: This is the second in a series of essays (“The Paradise Essays”) on the importance of libraries and the attack on our broader culture in general.

“I have always imagined that paradise will be a type of library.”

—Jorge Luis Borges

Vast Power

Reading — among other things — is a form of listening.

With that in mind, think of the vast power of libraries. Think of the endless amount of information and stories; the possibility of coming across viewpoints that are not your own. And perhaps reading is not your favorite pastime. Well good news! Libraries also offer community events, classes, tutoring, mentoring, music, films, television shows, museum passes, internet access1, among many other services. They also provide a sanctuary to the lonely and defeated.

Libraries are free, they are open, they are democratic. They are the best of the human spirit housed in countless spaces across our country.

They’re filled with plenty of boring and, yet, necessary things like census results and old dusty law books on the shelves that — yes — may have been usurped by the internet, but until about 1995, where else would one go for this? And just because some of this societal information is a click or two away does not take away the vital importance of libraries.

Maybe you haven’t been in a library in years; maybe you were in one yesterday. Whatever the case may be, the riches remain, and the benefit to every citizen is incalculable.

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The Sad Little Boy

There have been times in my life when I have felt so empty and devoid of meaning I’ve felt like I was disappearing, and pretty much every time, books have played a part in rescuing me. I often say my three favorite things in the world are kindness, books, and water. Of those three, only one can reliably be held in your hands. Even as a boy, I would wander down to the library, walk past the same huge horse head sculpture, up the stairs, and to the left. I remember the atmosphere: Old books, sawdust, the mists that collected in the unreachable corners. The shelves were white and gray, and the card catalogue was at the center of the large common area. I still dream I’m there. I can see the stacks of books, the large wooden tables, the separate magazine area. I loved the magazine area. You could walk in there, and the most recent issue was displayed on a metal cover, which could be lifted up and sort of folded in, revealing piles of back issues. I loved seeing those haphazard stacks, knowing they held all this information I did not know, but because I had access to the library, it was information I could know if I so desired. All for the cost of nothing2.

Just behind the magazines were the kids books. I would sit between the stacks, small and enthralled, my mouth just slightly open, the only sound the turning of the crisp pages. Every once in a while I would look up and stare out the big, stately windows, and wonder if others had this flighty feeling in their stomach, or felt the troubling thoughts in their head disappear when consuming the words of another. After some time had passed, more often than not, I would find myself amongst a pile of baseball books. I would ingest the statistics, the biographies of the players, the poetry of the game, sometimes closing my eyes and imagining myself playing3 at Wrigley Field, which I believed would become yet another forcefield I would hide my vulnerabilities behind.

I would take out up to a dozen books at once, knowing I was not going to read all of them, or even most of them, but that I was going to have them close by, a little mountain of informational escape. The piles contained books about baseball, and novels that looked like the novels my dad would read. I always loved watching my dad with a book. He would sit quietly, his large hand delicately turning each page, interested in a way I found captivating. I could understand that interest. I wanted to have that interest.

My childhood library has since moved, but the building that housed it still stands. When visiting my hometown, I love to walk by it, letting my eyes run over the bricks, the windows, the archway over the door. On these walks I allow myself indulgence in nostalgia (that destroyer of worlds) and smile as I remember the possibility that sad little boy held tight to his heart.

There are right wing ideas in libraries; there are left wing ideas in libraries. I can almost guarantee that there is at least one book in every single library I’ve ever entered that I detest. What good would the library be if it was just a reflection of my own prejudices? The answer is not a hell of a lot good. For good or for ill, whether I am a person I hope to be or not, I need to be reminded that there are different perspectives, that we should gauge knowledge as precious rather than threat. I hope the libraries I go into not only have the authors I love — Steinbeck, Robinson, Wallace, Caro, King — but also the authors I loathe — Beck, Hannity, Rand. Just because I want to see a certain thing on the shelves does not mean I have the final say. In fact, one person, or government, that claims to have the say on knowledge is lying to you. It’s a comfortable lie, one that can rock you to sleep, but a lie it is.

I couldn’t have said it then, but I know now: Libraries gave me life through purpose, knowledge, community, and curiosity. So much of that remains essential to my life now, even as I watch as our leaders extol something incredibly different: retribution, fear, cruelty, profit at all cost.

How dare these depleted, short sighted fucks attempt to take away such rich pillars of our communities. Are they afraid that someone might read a book and realize that genius has nothing to do with hiring other people to build rockets and cars for you, or impregnating as many white women as possible4? That, perhaps, genius is actually often an extension of empathy, resilience, memory. awareness, grace, and kindness?

Maybe when libraries are curtailed, people will stop trusting the intuition that there must be more to life than making sure a handful of people get rich. People will certainly be waving goodbye to the already distant cultural idea of books and complex thought. The Right that serves Dear Leader has no interest in complex thought or inquiry; they are but thousands of tentacles of this one horrific Id that haunts each of our days. Sure, there was William F Buckley, Jr, and Irving Kristol, etc, but today’s Right has about as much to do with those two men as I have to do with a world class speed skater.

Our brains are volatile, demanding masters, and sometimes the only way that I can quell my brain is to feed it language. I love to read for more than just the story; I love to read for the way the sentences spill across the page (or screen), to notice how certain combinations of words tell a truth about me I never considered. I read because it is an antidote to ache. I read because I want to be a better listener.

I read because I need to live.