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.

Hermitage

I used to think that people walking alone and talking were touched. So did you – admit it. Now we reserve judgment. They may be on the telephone. They may be “reaching out and touching someone” else.

That's the jargon, but the reality is that most people can no longer stand silence, nor to be alone. And at the same time they often insist on being alone. Many of those who have buds in their ears as they walk along with their eyes down are listening to something or other, but not to someone on the other end of the telephone line. It's a “play list,” or some other form of entertainment. For lots of people, the main enemy seems to be actual communication, and they protect themselves from it by whatever means are necessary. With the buds in their ears they warn everyone else to stay away. And the buds provide license to the wearer to ignore everyone around, using the pretense that no one is heard.

I'm more like the members of this latter group. Like Greta Garbo, “I want to be let alone.”ⁱ I prefer silence to people. I'm a hermit. I'm willing to concede that. I prefer isolation.  I'm not enochlophobic – I just don't like people.  So unlike Garbo, I want to be alone as well. Perhaps I should get earbuds connected to wires that are loose in my pocket. No one will suspect a thing. 

But I want to be alone on my terms. And, for better or worse, there's a world out there that I want to be available when I want it to be available.

I raise the issue because, a few days ago, I was cut of from the world. It happened in Massachusetts, in the southern Berkshire mountains, where my wife and I have a vacation home. It's my Hermitage. Andrew Jackson had his (as did Catherine the Great, for that matter) , and this one is mine.ⁱⁱ

I happened to be there alone one dayⁱⁱⁱ when the electricity went off. No big deal. It's happened before. The house is in the woods, and the town is small, but there are available electric company employees in the area and repairs are usually reasonably prompt. I decided to take a nap and reevaluate the situation when I woke up. I suspected that the electricity would be back by that time, and I was right. But when I picked up the telephone,^iv there was no dial tone.

That's a little more unusual. In all likelihood the problem had existed for a while, but, since I rarely use the telephone, I hadn't noticed. My primary use of the land line is to get DSL for my laptop. It had been spotty earlier, but that's frequent when you're out in the country, so I didn't pay much attention to it. Now, though, it was only working sporadically and unpredictably.

So I pulled out the cellular telephone that I occasionally carry in case of emergency. I rarely use it – perhaps once or twice a year – but I have it as insurance. Except the message I got was “No Service.” I think I had overpaid for the “insurance.” The only chance I had to communicate with the outside world was to leave a note on one of the message carriers and hope that it got transmitted in one of the occasional burps of internet service. And fortunately it did, at some time or other after that. The message was addressed to my wife and it asked her to contact someone I know who lives near me^v so that he could have the telephone company check.

I'm not really sure when the message went out, but, as I said, apparently it did, for a couple of hours later there was a knock at the door and I was greeted by my friend's cousin,^vi who came to inform me that my wife had called in a panic, and he wanted to get me to a phone to call her back. (She'd been trying to reach me but all she got was a busy signal, despite the fact that I wasn't using the telephone).

So I did, and after I reassured her about my health, I learned that she had already called the telephone company and they'd come by on the following day. They kept their word and fixed the short on one of their poles about a mile away, and by the following afternoon the world and I were one again.

But I had been unreachable. And just as I, until then, had had the expectation that I could contact others, she expected to be able to speak with me whenever she felt like it. That's the problem. Our ancestors could live in solitude without any concern because they never experienced anything else. On the other hand we, having always been “connected,” become anxious when that capability disappears. It's one of the curses of our modern technological society. The numerous devices we have around have created their own set of expectations and we get nervous when they can't be met. The telephone system^vii at our primary residence is dependent on a backup battery which lasts for about eight hours. It should be plenty of time in a modern city for the return of power. Except that isn't always the case, and once, when electricity was off for several days, we were without power, and without the ability to reach the rest of humanity. As I mentioned, that sort of thing is quite acceptable to me, but most people can't live with it. It's hard for them to tolerate life in a hermitage unconnected to everyone else.

And not everyone can abide a primitive life in general. Abe Lincoln read by candle light. That requires two things: a book and a candle. When the electricity is out and the batteries have already been discharged, there's neither candle nor Kindle. We've become so dependent on technology that its absence is threatening. Our expectations have been raised to such a high level that a fall from it is paralyzing.

So what's the solution? Actually there are three things that can be done. The first, of course, is to prepare for any possible contingencies. For example, get some candles. And get some real books. You should also keep some foods and drinks that won't spoil in the absence of refrigeration.

Next, lower your own expectations and those of the others in your life. When you're hiding away somewhere, let everyone know that you won't be reachable and they shouldn't even try. That won't stop you from contacting them if both the capability and the will exist,^viii but that's your choice. They won't be anticipating it or waiting for it.

And the third thing you can do is somehow or other turn everyone you know into hermits too.

Next episode: “The New Paradigm” – You can decide if it's really better.

i         In “Grand Hotel” (1935) she said “I want to be alone,” but she denied that this was her personal philosophy. Quite correctly she drew a distinction between being alone, and being let alone. The latter was her desire. In terms of quiet, most of her career was in silent films.

ii       Thomas Jefferson occasionally referred to Monticello as “Hermitage.” It seems he not only favored a “wall of separation” between Church and State, but a personal wall between himself and the outside world. I can relate.

iii      My wife was in New York at the time. Sometimes I go to Massachusetts to “veg” and to glory in my solitude, and she comes up for the weekends.

iv       I can't remember why I picked it up. I really don't like talking to people.

v        Actually he lives about a half-hour away, but since he takes care of my house when I'm away he seemed like the logical person to contact.

vi       My friend had fallen asleep. Fortunately he and his cousin live in the same house.

vii      FIOS.

viii     And don't forget to tell them that you had to travel many miles to be able to call them. That will impress them with the idea that you care a lot, and it will give them a sense of guilt for your having to do so just to speak with them. (That may not be true, but it will probably discourage them from calling back.)