I have a weakness for books. If I freely indulged myself, I’d be poverty-stricken in no time flat. I’ve got such long lists of books to read that if I were to actually to get to all of them it would take several lifetimes, and if I didn’t keep myself under strict control (where, oh where are the 12-step programs for book addicts?) I’d be crowded out of house and home, or could be featured on the show “Hoarders” as a warning to others.
But the library provides just the right outlet for my book-acquiring urges. I always take more out than I can read, but not too many more (after all, there’s a limit to what I can carry), and there’s really no downside to it unless I manage to incur fines—which I do periodically, but just a few dollars here and there, which I consider a small donation to the cause.
As a child, I looked forward to library day as though it were a holiday. I’d prevail on my mother to take me there, and once we arrived I’d get down to business and collect my treasures. Until I was twelve and could go to the adult room, I had to abide by the cruel rules that limited me to six books a pop. Oh, the solemn deliberations! I’d pile up the candidates on an empty table and weigh their attributes, contemplating which was worth more to me, the book on geology or the next volume in Noel Streatfeild’s “Shoes” series—and wondering whether, if I passed one of them up this time, it would still be there next time I tried to find it or whether some other rival child would have claimed it.
At home, I could hardly wait. There they sat, like a bunch of unopened but gaily-wrapped presents on Christmas morning, bright with promise. Then I’d choose the most enticing (the biggest? the most colorful?), turn to its first page, and begin.
I’d try to stretch out the pleasure—in the same way I gamely tried to save my Halloween candy so that it would last longer. But, as with the sweets, I’d succumb quickly to my desires. Typically I’d read all the books in the first couple of days, slowed down only by my mother standing over me periodically and wringing her hands, ordering me to go outside and play.
What was she so worried about? A lot of things. I might atrophy into a sitting or reclining position (I tended to read while sprawled on couch or bed). I might need glasses some day. I might be abnormal (maybe I already was!). I might even become that dread thing, a female intellectual.
What can I say; it was a long time ago. But I still love the library. And when I was in my thirties I discovered a new (at least to me) treat: inter-library loan. Like the genie in the fairy tales, the library was saying to me, “Your wish is my command!”, honoring requests to the best of its ability, scouring the land for the titles of my choice.
I’d often stay up all night reading, even when I was the mother of a young child and I knew I’d be exhausted the next day. Books are company, books are learning, books are interacting with other interesting minds, books are escape. Books are—well, here’s Emily Dickinson, who knew a thing or two about the subject:
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry ”“
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll ”“
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul ”“
[ADDENDUM: Here’s a previous post of mine about a formative library experience of my youth, featuring the NY Public Library and my mother as the stars.]





