I never used to like libraries so much. Don't get me wrong, I've always loved to read. It's just I preferred to buy my books. I didn't see the charm in having to drive to the library, to find a spot to park, to pay the meter, just so that I could check out a book with smudged print and ripped pages. Not to mention the possibility of my being exposed to the staphylococcal bacteria that has most likely been cultivating within the crevice of the binding since the book was last checked out in 1974. And then I still had to return it.
But my dismissal of libraries changed last summer when I had to write a 15 page research paper about the Roman Republic's influence on the United States government. Sounds like a dry topic, no? My cat, Boubacar, sure thought so (see picture below).
Actually, it was quite fascinating (but that's besides the point). I visited my university library (I live only 20 minutes away from it so I have year-round access to it) and checked out 4 books that would help me write the paper. I knew nothing about the Roman Republic in the first place, so not only did I need the books to bulk up my works cited page, but I needed them to "get a clue" so that I could at least feign intelligence when discussing ancient governments and the syndication of power. Before I realized it, I had checked out 13 books. Almost one book per page of the paper. It was addicting. It was so easy. I needed more material; I ordered another book. I realized that using the library allowed me to have no commitment to the books I checked out. I was only borrowing them, and I didn't have to like the words inside because they were borrowed too.
This was different then buying books. When I buy books I own their words, in a sense. I am committed to them. Whether bombastic or approachable, drivel or life-changing, the words within each book I purchase are mine.
Admittedly, I liked the feeling of being uncommitted to the words. Perhaps it was the power that being uncomitted allowed me for I could tangibly declare someone's thoughts as trash. I wouldn't have to destroy the book, but I could make it disappear by returning it. I wouldn't even have to finish it. That's why this summer I have taken advantage of the local library in my small town. Sure, it's dark inside and smells a tad stale like your late Jewish grandfather's old Philadelphia row home. The library has plastic-covered titles and the row home had plastic covered couches. But, an abrasion from ripped plastic still hurts whether it's on your finger or your thigh so what is the difference really? Exactly, both have their charm.
It's been a great time, checking out those books from the library. I have to admit, though, that I still occasionally think about who sneezed on the page that I have just fervently touched all over with my own grummy paws. But I figure it was worth it. The words on that page were just so poignant that I had to re-read the page more closely and follow along with my finger. I guess exposure to fatal disease is just a risk I'll have to take when borrowing words. (Though I avoid setting the book down on my sheets because not doing so makes me feel like I am, in turn, avoiding the plague altogether.)
With that, I close with a brief excerpt from the most recent book that I finished. And yes, it came from the library.
"She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half. Then a chapter. Soon there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this. Without words, the Fuhrer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or worldly tricks to make us feel better. What good were the words?" -Markus Zusak,
The Book Thief
