My local library has reopened. Things are not back to normal, but it is still a pulse growing stronger, a steady sign of life.
Life of the mind, heart of the community, survival of civilized society. My library means all these things to me.
For the time being, it is a place of exchange rather than a hangout. You can get and return books, but you can’t linger. Teenagers can’t gather upstairs after school. Unemployed people can’t spend hours on library computers, scrolling through want ads. Researchers can’t tap on laptop keyboards as they sip from Starbucks cups.
Yet I’m so glad to see the librarians at the circulation desk, even if they’re masked and shielded by plexiglass.* I’m so grateful to be able to pick up holds ordered from the central library and to peruse the stacks for Simon Winchester’s book on the Atlantic, and for more titles by Jane Gardam, an author I hadn’t read before the pandemic but have grown to love.
A filmmaker I know is basing a movie on “The Overstory” by Richard Powers, so I’m reading that. I’m infuriated about the ways profiteers are benefiting from covid-19, so I’m also reading “Homewreckers” by Aaron Glantz. This morning, I checked out David Mitchell’s “Ghostwriter,” and on the walk home I listened to a podcast in which a reviewer described it as one of his favorites.
Escape and understanding. That’s what I get from this most democratic of institutions, and never have I valued them more. My library, as much as my grocery store, is getting me through this.
* The counter also was wiped clean after each patron. I hope our librarians feel safe, and I hope they’re not forced to choose between their jobs and their sense of security.