A Bookworm's Confession

Lately, in quest of a thesis, I have been spending a lot of time in Harvard's libraries: the quiet, dimly lit nooks and crannies of Hilles, the clattering shelves of Pusey, the musty corners of Widener. Every so often I get sidetracked, especially if it's in an interesting part of the PS (American literature) or LB (education) sections or if it's late at night in the Widener stacks and I'm tired of carrying books up and down floors. I'll toss down my backpack, sit on the floor in my jeans, and explore the wonders in front of me.

For the libraries do contain wonders, no matter how much of a bad rap Widener may get for its labyrinthine structure and aisles lit by naked light-bulbs. Last year, I had a professor encourage us as she handed out supplementary reading lists to spend some time every once in a while browsing in Widener. Not looking frantically for a book, just letting your eyes roam over the shelves. You'll find things you never expected.

There is, of course, the mundane kind of looking, when you search for a title you know you want--say a biography of Jane Addams--and realize that sitting one shelf down is the book on Chicago progressivism that is the absolute key to your 20-page history paper due next week. That is the useful kind of browsing. But the real fun begins when you're not looking for anything in particular.

For instance, the other night I was scanning the writing section on the third floor, investigating such titles as, Writing Down the Bones and The Gentle Art of Authorship. In the process, I found a book by Richard Rhodes, author of The Making of the Atomic Bomb. It was not about nuclear war but writing, and I was delighted to pick it up and learn that this Pulitzer Prize-winning author got his start as the writer of Hallmark Cards' daily employee newspaper. Not to mention the advice of his public relations manager on how to write: "Rhodes, you apply ass to chair."

Then there was the time last year when it hit me that the entire New York Times Book Review from most of the past century was bound in leather in the depths of Widener. I must have subconsciously realized it before, since the Harvard library system contains far more obscure journals bearing titles such as Marine Oils, Fish Meal and The World Market for Bovine Meat, but I had never thought about the possibility of actually holding it in my hands. Once I discovered the right shelf, I opened up a volume from 1930s, and there was Hemingway; one from the 1960s, and there was Mailer. It was the literary history of the twentieth century, trussed up in a neat package from which some intrepid historiographer could make a book.

It may seem easy, but browsing well is an art. Although you may be tempted to leaf through the nicely bound books that are soon to be quality paperbacks and have their titles embossed in understated yellow on a gray background, sometimes the most fascinating tomes are those that are falling apart or bound in ubiquitous perma-bound covers.

After flipping through pages long enough, I sometimes worry about the books suffering neglect. Who is reading the five miles of books Harvard's brochures brag about? For what purpose did their authors toil to write them? And who needs them all? Once in a while, I'll check out a book whose last date stamp is 17 June 1965 and wonder how many other books have sat on the shelves since Lyndon Johnson was president, waiting to be taken out or even given a second glance.

In its dead authors' hopes for posterity, the library is a monument to the failures and successes of humanity. If you write a book, maybe you will influence the ages. At the worst, you will make a bit of money and know that your words will sit on the shelves of Widener for eternity, keeping your place on earth.

At Harvard, ghosts roam freely, along the paths of Tercentenary Theatre and through the buildings of the Yard. But nowhere are they more present than on the shelves of the Harvard library system, where the words of the ages await your accidental perusal.

Sarah J. Schaffer's column appears on alternate Fridays.