And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed for God knows how long.
Silence, quiet — these words are essential when discussing libraries. In this modern age of habitual haste and continuous activity, libraries provide a necessary sense of languor. But just as all other things that are detrimental in excess, the silence of libraries when unoccupied with the deliberation of a visitor and prolonged over time transforms into the likes of a disease that eats up in silence, more of a stagnant silence than a calming one. It drags its teeth over intellect and eats away leisurely. It is dangerous. It is tragic. It has become a normal occurrence in today’s world.
The verse I quoted in the beginning comes from a poem that expresses concern over the abandonment of religious spaces. I could not help but put this spiritual crisis next to a literary or intellectual one. Libraries close their doors, and cathedrals become deserted, leaving behind an abysmal void. Such places stand tall only when an entire community acts as an anchor.
A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder.
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place was for what it was.
I have seen libraries become uncertain identities, caught between closing galleries and neglected museums. People wander in and out, gaping at tall shelves, never-ending rows of books, high ceilings, and all that, yet they do not realise the real purpose behind their existence. Libraries are becoming more of a place to admire from afar, a relic to gawk at, rather than an inn, a shelter, or a solution for seekers and wanderers. Form becomes a preference, not a function.
Much like the Romanticists’ retreat toward the countryside, public libraries offered a place of serenity and purpose, giving one space to breathe, think, and create — what humans were always supposed to do. The library is now an interior landscape, as the wilderness is less convenient. A cultivated quiet in the air of wood and paper has a similar restorative function to that of nature.
Society categorises people and places. You have hospitals for health, places of worship for faith, and schools for education. There are separations made by roles, ages, and beliefs; yet, if you visit a library, you will find a child reading a comic and, a few steps away, a scholar leafing through more serious work. This coexistence exists once libraries shut down, and then all you have are categories of people and places that welcome one group and exclude another.
The idea of individualism diminishes inside a library. There is a soft intimacy in the way strangers share space. One flips a page, another slips a book into its space, and someone by the window is contemplating the paragraph they just read — moving past one another and yet not colliding. They acknowledge each other’s presence without making any demands. There is no forced visibility or loud interactions, something that would not be possible if it were another place — a public place.
I could download multiple EPUBs on my phone to read, but the ritual of reading and borrowing valued books in a reverent manner is something one fails to find in digital libraries. The erosion of library culture makes intellectual life disintegrate. This decay is less noticeable now, as an entire population has its interests shifted towards individualism, and the loss of communal experience grows heavier each day.
Third places, they call them. It is a place that is neither demanding nor transactional. People here are released from the shackles of obligation and isolation, an in-between space that is not awkward but warm and welcoming.
According to Cicero, if you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need. An unfortunate thing, a common man has none, and yet he is as engrossed in his life that weighs on his shoulder and picks at his heart; a person should have some place to go after a hectic, eventful day. Libraries need to stay alive and open for as long as humans exist — this shared living space of humanity and intellect, unmeasured, uncommercial and unhurried.