The Library

There's an article on the Billboard web page of September 1, 2015. It tells of the discovery of the only known manuscript of “Good Morning to All,” by the Hill sisters (Mildred and Patty), which you know better as “Happy Birthday to You.” It was found in the music library of the University of Louisville. The article dealt primarily with the copyright of the song, but that's not of particular concern to me. I'm more interested in the manuscript itself, a manuscript lost for a long time – over half a century – but rediscovered by chance when a librarian was looking through an old sketch book.

It's hardly the first time a “lost,” or an unknown manuscript has been discovered by chance in a library somewhere. The manuscript may be music or text, but what is most exhilarating is the surprise associated with unexpectedly finding a remnant of the past – often documenting not only the thought expressed, but also the handwriting of an author who may have lived centuries earlier. (It may no longer be the case, but people used to write out their ideas rather than entrust them to a computer. Indeed, there were no computers. So you'll never find an honest–to–G-d undiscovered manuscript using a search engine.) 

Such discoveries tend to be the rarely received rewards of the dedicated researcher, although occasionally they result from a cleaning or an inventory; they're not the reason why most of us go to libraries. There was a time when people went to their local libraries to borrow books, but with the internet and Kindle^®, that use is diminishing. In fact, the sales of print books is decreasing rapidly. Not only that, but the lead of children's and young adults' books is most striking and disturbing. Our youth are preoccupied.

And, despite the treasured beliefs of college librarians, campus libraries are frequently of primary use as meeting places – both planned and unplanned. They're good places to find reasonably intelligent members of the opposite sex (or of the same sex if that's what you prefer).

But there are other libraries – ones of more interest to some of us older folk. (We have memories and longings too.) Perhaps I'm only describing my own fantasy, but the library in which I'd like to find myself has room after room of richly carved woodwork, and more books than I could possibly want, but which somehow provide a feeling of security and stability. The library is warm and quiet (though I can listen to classical music – harmonic and accessible, not discordant and modern – through my earphones) and the chairs are comfortable. The lighting is perfect, and nothing around me moves except for those who are intent on providing for me all the services of which I dream. They're people who exist elsewhere, but in my library their main interest would be in my satisfaction.

Librarians, for example, are not at all the way we tend to picture them. We usually view them as dowdy spinsters who have no life except telling others to be quiet. A more accurate picture is of someone who knows a lot, and knows how to find out what he or she doesn't yet know; the librarian is a person dedicated to helping us find what we seek – whether it's a specific fact or a book. And that's just what the librarians in my library do. Of course they anticipate what will interest me and have it at the ready as soon as I want it. (I'd have to find a way to browse through the books where I might find an unexpected treasure – either a random book or some other goody. An unknown Vivaldi Concerto, for example. But one way or another I'd manage to browse.) And, interestingly enough, the books they hand me, no matter how trashy the contents, are all beautifully leather bound. How much better it is to hold such a book in my hands, and to turn the pages than to simply view the contents on some sort of electronic device.

There are others I'd have in my library – mostly the kind of people who might otherwise find employment in a private club. It would be nice to have someone bring me a snack or a drink and clean up after me when I'm done. In most clubs they'd be spending much of their time delivering and refolding newspapers, rather than locating books, but I'm sure they'd learn. (And every now and then I want to read a newspaper.) You can be sure my library would also have another club feature – a dining room featuring exotic and delicious dishes (kosher, of course) however I'm dismayed at the thought that I might have to get up and walk into the next room. But there would be a way. Better, I'll have the food brought to my chair.

Another model with some of the features I treasure is a monastery (except for the kosher food, of course). Theirs, as far as I'm concerned, is an overly active life, but in a setting in which the monks have taken a vow of silence and there is no socializing I'd probably be very comfortable.

That's the fantasy. It's the dream of a hermit like me. I suspect, though, that if it were real and I had access to it, it would be hard to find the time. I'd have to leave my computer. But it would all be worth it for that dusty sketch book.