Essay About Libraries

Guest post by Jackie Morrogh. Jackie is a graduating fourth-year English major, four-year co-chair of the Library Council, and student representative on the University Libraries Committee. We can’t thank Jackie enough for her enthusiastic support of the Library, and we’re happy to report that she’ll be back in the Library next year, working on the Book Traces @ UVA project and pursuing a Master’s degree.

In my application essay to the University of Virginia I wrote, “When you open a book, you are opening a world of possibilities, venturing into the unknown, armed only with a text, a light source, and a bookmark.” In my time at UVA I have discovered that this is not quite true. We do not venture into the unknown here at UVA: we are guided by our librarians.

“Why do libraries matter?” This question was first posed to me in the fall of 2012. I was a first year—new to the University and unaware of the importance of a college library system, and I was taking a class that endeavored to answer that very question. “Why Libraries Matter” was the College Advising Seminar that I had every Wednesday with professor Andrew Stauffer, and from that simple one credit class I learned so much about the importance of libraries to not only UVA, but to me as an actively learning mind.

At the focal point of Mr. Jefferson’s University was a library—the Rotunda—rather than a church, which was revolutionary in the early 1800s. Mr. Jefferson was an avid reader; in a letter to John Adams, he said, “I cannot live without books.” In his time, a library was a place to store those books, to be accessed at any time in order to expand the limits of the human mind. While the library still serves that purpose, it has become so much more.

The list of resources available to students through the libraries is virtually endless. Are you writing a paper on Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!? You can check all the copies out of Alderman and perform manual collation on a Hinman collator in Special Collections. You can listen to Faulkner answer common questions in recordings available online, or view his actual handwritten notes in Special Collections. You can create a digital map of the characters’ movements with the help of the Scholars’ Lab and Neatline. Do you want to watch a 3D printer in action? You can do that in the Scholars’ Lab in Alderman Library as well. If you just discovered that your roommate has never seen Mean Girls you can check it out of Clemons and watch it in the comfort of your dorm. Are you looking for the copy of Corks & Curls with a previously unpublished poem by Edgar Allan Poe? It’s right in 2M New Stacks of Alderman (and in Virgo-ed.).

And that is only the tip of the iceberg. In my time at UVA I have seen Thomas Jefferson’s own copy of Notes on Virginia, annotated by him. I’ve watched a conference happen on the third floor of Clemons through video conference technology because the two rooms of people are hundreds of miles away from each other. I’ve studied the watermark on a copy of the Declaration of Independence using a paper thin backlight. The libraries at UVA bring the fascinating relics of the past to meet the rapidly advancing technologies of the future in constantly new and engaging ways. For most students upon graduation, the only complaint about the libraries is that they didn’t use them enough.

I know that I probably should be paying rent given how much time I spend in Clemons. For most students, the libraries as a space are a place for social interaction and focused work. There’s something about being surrounded entirely by books that makes me want to get down to work and write my paper now instead of later. At the same time, I can always take a break and grab coffee at Greenberry’s on the fourth floor of Alderman, where I’ll undoubtedly run into a few friends.

For me, the libraries have been a haven—something I cared about and was able to teach my friends about. My first year, I had a lot of trouble getting involved in extracurricular activities. I was thrown out of the small pond of my high school into the ocean of college filled with incredibly talented people. I had been discussing my difficulties getting involved with professor Stauffer, my advisor and COLA instructor. He told me about a group called “Library Council” that needed some help tabling in the next week . Overwhelmed by all of my free time, I was quick to agree to help. Early the next week, I proceeded to Alderman Library for only the third time in my life, and I went into my first Library Council meeting.

As I sat and heard updates from Karin Wittenborg, the University Librarian, and learned of different events planned for that semester, I was thrilled. At that point in time, Library Council had just made the shift to a student-run committee—there was no student leadership. By the time I left the meeting, I had volunteered to be the co-chair of the council and had gotten a t-shirt with the separated V and the word “Library” on the back. I was overjoyed.

In the months to come I played a role in getting hand dryers installed in the Brown Science and Engineering Library, where paper towels used to overflow from the trash bins, and I attended a lecture given by the esteemed director of the Rare Book School, Professor Michael Suarez. I was making a difference and I was learning, too. But it wasn’t until finals rolled around that my friends began to appreciate what I was spending every moment of my free time working on.

I had learned through Library Council that it was possible to reserve library rooms for study groups. A month before finals, I worked out a schedule where I would have three rooms reserved for three hours at a time in Alderman, Brown, and Clemons. First, we would have the Think Tank in Alderman until it closed at 5. Next, from 6:30–9:30 (after a dinner break) we could study the evening away in Brown. Finally, from 10–1, we would venture to Clemons for some late night studying, almost always involving a pizza order or two. I had downloaded a Yule log app onto my computer, and I was able to check out an HDMI cord from the front desk of the library and hook my computer up to the screens in the rooms. It put us in the holiday spirit and we passed around peppermint bark to ease the stress of finals.

It is always exciting for me when I overhear a friend worrying about a paper or realizing that they don’t have the book they need for a class the next day. I always know how to help them—ask a Librarian. I owe much of my academic success to the combination of resources and space that the libraries have given me, and I have found that the best way I can give back is by being of service to the Library itself on Library Council. After four years as co-chair, I can say that I am as excited about the libraries as I was from day one.

The libraries have become even more than just a place to study—Alderman has become my place of work. Professor Stauffer continues to teach me why libraries matter through my work as a statistician on the “Book Traces @ UVA” research project. The project seeks to identify signs of past readers in library books, such as marginalia, inscriptions, and insertions. We’ve found everything from a newspaper article published the day Henry Wadsworth Longfellow died to a lock of hair, tucked away in a 19th century romance novel. My role is analyzing the data we’ve culled from over 90,000 books so far. Upon discovering that approximately 13% of books have an intervention of interest, I’ve become more engaged than ever with the books on the shelves.

Next year I will stay at UVA to pursue a one-year Master’s Degree in English. I will be living on the historic Range, only a few doors down from where Edgar Allan Poe used to live. All that time ago, I signed up for “Why Libraries Matter” on a whim because I just loved books. In studying English I will continue to dive deeper into that passion, and I hope to someday work in a field where I can be a part of the ever-evolving bridge between reader and text. Mostly, I intend to read as much as I can. There’s always more to learn and, like Thomas Jefferson, I believe in the illimitable freedom of the human mind. I intend “to explore and to expose every subject susceptible of its contemplation.” The Library has given me the key to do just that, and for that I am eternally grateful.

-Jackie Morrogh

This entry was posted in News, Show Homepage and tagged academic engagement, Alderman, awareness, books, Brown Science & Engineering Library, Clemons Library, Digital Humanities, Edgar Allan Poe, Scholars' Lab, special collections, Thomas Jefferson by Jeff. Bookmark the permalink.

It’s important for people to tell you what side they are on and why, and whether they might be biased. A declaration of members’ interests, of a sort. So, I am going to be talking to you about reading. I’m going to tell you that libraries are important. I’m going to suggest that reading fiction, that reading for pleasure, is one of the most important things one can do. I’m going to make an impassioned plea for people to understand what libraries and librarians are, and to preserve both of these things.

And I am biased, obviously and enormously: I’m an author, often an author of fiction. I write for children and for adults. For about 30 years I have been earning my living through my words, mostly by making things up and writing them down. It is obviously in my interest for people to read, for them to read fiction, for libraries and librarians to exist and help foster a love of reading and places in which reading can occur.

So I’m biased as a writer. But I am much, much more biased as a reader. And I am even more biased as a British citizen.

And I’m here giving this talk tonight, under the auspices of the Reading Agency: a charity whose mission is to give everyone an equal chance in life by helping people become confident and enthusiastic readers. Which supports literacy programs, and libraries and individuals and nakedly and wantonly encourages the act of reading. Because, they tell us, everything changes when we read.

And it’s that change, and that act of reading that I’m here to talk about tonight. I want to talk about what reading does. What it’s good for.

I was once in New York, and I listened to a talk about the building of private prisons – a huge growth industry in America. The prison industry needs to plan its future growth – how many cells are they going to need? How many prisoners are there going to be, 15 years from now? And they found they could predict it very easily, using a pretty simple algorithm, based on asking what percentage of 10 and 11-year-olds couldn’t read. And certainly couldn’t read for pleasure.

It’s not one to one: you can’t say that a literate society has no criminality. But there are very real correlations.

And I think some of those correlations, the simplest, come from something very simple. Literate people read fiction.

Fiction has two uses. Firstly, it’s a gateway drug to reading. The drive to know what happens next, to want to turn the page, the need to keep going, even if it’s hard, because someone’s in trouble and you have to know how it’s all going to end … that’s a very real drive. And it forces you to learn new words, to think new thoughts, to keep going. To discover that reading per se is pleasurable. Once you learn that, you’re on the road to reading everything. And reading is key. There were noises made briefly, a few years ago, about the idea that we were living in a post-literate world, in which the ability to make sense out of written words was somehow redundant, but those days are gone: words are more important than they ever were: we navigate the world with words, and as the world slips onto the web, we need to follow, to communicate and to comprehend what we are reading. People who cannot understand each other cannot exchange ideas, cannot communicate, and translation programs only go so far.

The simplest way to make sure that we raise literate children is to teach them to read, and to show them that reading is a pleasurable activity. And that means, at its simplest, finding books that they enjoy, giving them access to those books, and letting them read them.

I don’t think there is such a thing as a bad book for children. Every now and again it becomes fashionable among some adults to point at a subset of children’s books, a genre, perhaps, or an author, and to declare them bad books, books that children should be stopped from reading. I’ve seen it happen over and over; Enid Blyton was declared a bad author, so was RL Stine, so were dozens of others. Comics have been decried as fostering illiteracy.


It’s tosh. It’s snobbery and it’s foolishness. There are no bad authors for children, that children like and want to read and seek out, because every child is different. They can find the stories they need to, and they bring themselves to stories. A hackneyed, worn-out idea isn’t hackneyed and worn out to them. This is the first time the child has encountered it. Do not discourage children from reading because you feel they are reading the wrong thing. Fiction you do not like is a route to other books you may prefer. And not everyone has the same taste as you.

Well-meaning adults can easily destroy a child’s love of reading: stop them reading what they enjoy, or give them worthy-but-dull books that you like, the 21st-century equivalents of Victorian “improving” literature. You’ll wind up with a generation convinced that reading is uncool and worse, unpleasant.

We need our children to get onto the reading ladder: anything that they enjoy reading will move them up, rung by rung, into literacy. (Also, do not do what this author did when his 11-year-old daughter was into RL Stine, which is to go and get a copy of Stephen King’s Carrie, saying if you liked those you’ll love this! Holly read nothing but safe stories of settlers on prairies for the rest of her teenage years, and still glares at me when Stephen King’s name is mentioned.)

And the second thing fiction does is to build empathy. When you watch TV or see a film, you are looking at things happening to other people. Prose fiction is something you build up from 26 letters and a handful of punctuation marks, and you, and you alone, using your imagination, create a world and people it and look out through other eyes. You get to feel things, visit places and worlds you would never otherwise know. You learn that everyone else out there is a me, as well. You’re being someone else, and when you return to your own world, you’re going to be slightly changed.

Empathy is a tool for building people into groups, for allowing us to function as more than self-obsessed individuals.

You’re also finding out something as you read vitally important for making your way in the world. And it’s this:

The world doesn’t have to be like this. Things can be different.

I was in China in 2007, at the first party-approved science fiction and fantasy convention in Chinese history. And at one point I took a top official aside and asked him Why? SF had been disapproved of for a long time. What had changed?

It’s simple, he told me. The Chinese were brilliant at making things if other people brought them the plans. But they did not innovate and they did not invent. They did not imagine. So they sent a delegation to the US, to Apple, to Microsoft, to Google, and they asked the people there who were inventing the future about themselves. And they found that all of them had read science fiction when they were boys or girls.

Fiction can show you a different world. It can take you somewhere you’ve never been. Once you’ve visited other worlds, like those who ate fairy fruit, you can never be entirely content with the world that you grew up in. Discontent is a good thing: discontented people can modify and improve their worlds, leave them better, leave them different.

And while we’re on the subject, I’d like to say a few words about escapism. I hear the term bandied about as if it’s a bad thing. As if “escapist” fiction is a cheap opiate used by the muddled and the foolish and the deluded, and the only fiction that is worthy, for adults or for children, is mimetic fiction, mirroring the worst of the world the reader finds herself in.

If you were trapped in an impossible situation, in an unpleasant place, with people who meant you ill, and someone offered you a temporary escape, why wouldn’t you take it? And escapist fiction is just that: fiction that opens a door, shows the sunlight outside, gives you a place to go where you are in control, are with people you want to be with(and books are real places, make no mistake about that); and more importantly, during your escape, books can also give you knowledge about the world and your predicament, give you weapons, give you armour: real things you can take back into your prison. Skills and knowledge and tools you can use to escape for real.

As JRR Tolkien reminded us, the only people who inveigh against escape are jailers.

Another way to destroy a child’s love of reading, of course, is to make sure there are no books of any kind around. And to give them nowhere to read those books. I was lucky. I had an excellent local library growing up. I had the kind of parents who could be persuaded to drop me off in the library on their way to work in summer holidays, and the kind of librarians who did not mind a small, unaccompanied boy heading back into the children’s library every morning and working his way through the card catalogue, looking for books with ghosts or magic or rockets in them, looking for vampires or detectives or witches or wonders. And when I had finished reading the children’s’ library I began on the adult books.

They were good librarians. They liked books and they liked the books being read. They taught me how to order books from other libraries on inter-library loans. They had no snobbery about anything I read. They just seemed to like that there was this wide-eyed little boy who loved to read, and would talk to me about the books I was reading, they would find me other books in a series, they would help. They treated me as another reader – nothing less or more – which meant they treated me with respect. I was not used to being treated with respect as an eight-year-old.

But libraries are about freedom. Freedom to read, freedom of ideas, freedom of communication. They are about education (which is not a process that finishes the day we leave school or university), about entertainment, about making safe spaces, and about access to information.

I worry that here in the 21st century people misunderstand what libraries are and the purpose of them. If you perceive a library as a shelf of books, it may seem antiquated or outdated in a world in which most, but not all, books in print exist digitally. But that is to miss the point fundamentally.

I think it has to do with nature of information. Information has value, and the right information has enormous value. For all of human history, we have lived in a time of information scarcity, and having the needed information was always important, and always worth something: when to plant crops, where to find things, maps and histories and stories – they were always good for a meal and company. Information was a valuable thing, and those who had it or could obtain it could charge for that service.

In the last few years, we’ve moved from an information-scarce economy to one driven by an information glut. According to Eric Schmidt of Google, every two days now the human race creates as much information as we did from the dawn of civilisation until 2003. That’s about five exobytes of data a day, for those of you keeping score. The challenge becomes, not finding that scarce plant growing in the desert, but finding a specific plant growing in a jungle. We are going to need help navigating that information to find the thing we actually need.

Libraries are places that people go to for information. Books are only the tip of the information iceberg: they are there, and libraries can provide you freely and legally with books. More children are borrowing books from libraries than ever before – books of all kinds: paper and digital and audio. But libraries are also, for example, places that people, who may not have computers, who may not have internet connections, can go online without paying anything: hugely important when the way you find out about jobs, apply for jobs or apply for benefits is increasingly migrating exclusively online. Librarians can help these people navigate that world.

I do not believe that all books will or should migrate onto screens: as Douglas Adams once pointed out to me, more than 20 years before the Kindle turned up, a physical book is like a shark. Sharks are old: there were sharks in the ocean before the dinosaurs. And the reason there are still sharks around is that sharks are better at being sharks than anything else is. Physical books are tough, hard to destroy, bath-resistant, solar-operated, feel good in your hand: they are good at being books, and there will always be a place for them. They belong in libraries, just as libraries have already become places you can go to get access to ebooks, and audiobooks and DVDs and web content.

A library is a place that is a repository of information and gives every citizen equal access to it. That includes health information. And mental health information. It’s a community space. It’s a place of safety, a haven from the world. It’s a place with librarians in it. What the libraries of the future will be like is something we should be imagining now.

Literacy is more important than ever it was, in this world of text and email, a world of written information. We need to read and write, we need global citizens who can read comfortably, comprehend what they are reading, understand nuance, and make themselves understood.

Libraries really are the gates to the future. So it is unfortunate that, round the world, we observe local authorities seizing the opportunity to close libraries as an easy way to save money, without realising that they are stealing from the future to pay for today. They are closing the gates that should be open.

According to a recent study by the Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development, England is the “only country where the oldest age group has higher proficiency in both literacy and numeracy than the youngest group, after other factors, such as gender, socio-economic backgrounds and type of occupations are taken into account”.

Or to put it another way, our children and our grandchildren are less literate and less numerate than we are. They are less able to navigate the world, to understand it to solve problems. They can be more easily lied to and misled, will be less able to change the world in which they find themselves, be less employable. All of these things. And as a country, England will fall behind other developed nations because it will lack a skilled workforce.

Books are the way that we communicate with the dead. The way that we learn lessons from those who are no longer with us, that humanity has built on itself, progressed, made knowledge incremental rather than something that has to be relearned, over and over. There are tales that are older than most countries, tales that have long outlasted the cultures and the buildings in which they were first told.

I think we have responsibilities to the future. Responsibilities and obligations to children, to the adults those children will become, to the world they will find themselves inhabiting. All of us – as readers, as writers, as citizens – have obligations. I thought I’d try and spell out some of these obligations here.

I believe we have an obligation to read for pleasure, in private and in public places. If we read for pleasure, if others see us reading, then we learn, we exercise our imaginations. We show others that reading is a good thing.

We have an obligation to support libraries. To use libraries, to encourage others to use libraries, to protest the closure of libraries. If you do not value libraries then you do not value information or culture or wisdom. You are silencing the voices of the past and you are damaging the future.

We have an obligation to read aloud to our children. To read them things they enjoy. To read to them stories we are already tired of. To do the voices, to make it interesting, and not to stop reading to them just because they learn to read to themselves. Use reading-aloud time as bonding time, as time when no phones are being checked, when the distractions of the world are put aside.

We have an obligation to use the language. To push ourselves: to find out what words mean and how to deploy them, to communicate clearly, to say what we mean. We must not to attempt to freeze language, or to pretend it is a dead thing that must be revered, but we should use it as a living thing, that flows, that borrows words, that allows meanings and pronunciations to change with time.

We writers – and especially writers for children, but all writers – have an obligation to our readers: it’s the obligation to write true things, especially important when we are creating tales of people who do not exist in places that never were – to understand that truth is not in what happens but what it tells us about who we are. Fiction is the lie that tells the truth, after all. We have an obligation not to bore our readers, but to make them need to turn the pages. One of the best cures for a reluctant reader, after all, is a tale they cannot stop themselves from reading. And while we must tell our readers true things and give them weapons and give them armour and pass on whatever wisdom we have gleaned from our short stay on this green world, we have an obligation not to preach, not to lecture, not to force predigested morals and messages down our readers’ throats like adult birds feeding their babies pre-masticated maggots; and we have an obligation never, ever, under any circumstances, to write anything for children that we would not want to read ourselves.

We have an obligation to understand and to acknowledge that as writers for children we are doing important work, because if we mess it up and write dull books that turn children away from reading and from books, we ‘ve lessened our own future and diminished theirs.

We all – adults and children, writers and readers – have an obligation to daydream. We have an obligation to imagine. It is easy to pretend that nobody can change anything, that we are in a world in which society is huge and the individual is less than nothing: an atom in a wall, a grain of rice in a rice field. But the truth is, individuals change their world over and over, individuals make the future, and they do it by imagining that things can be different.

Look around you: I mean it. Pause, for a moment and look around the room that you are in. I’m going to point out something so obvious that it tends to be forgotten. It’s this: that everything you can see, including the walls, was, at some point, imagined. Someone decided it was easier to sit on a chair than on the ground and imagined the chair. Someone had to imagine a way that I could talk to you in London right now without us all getting rained on.This room and the things in it, and all the other things in this building, this city, exist because, over and over and over, people imagined things.

We have an obligation to make things beautiful. Not to leave the world uglier than we found it, not to empty the oceans, not to leave our problems for the next generation. We have an obligation to clean up after ourselves, and not leave our children with a world we’ve shortsightedly messed up, shortchanged, and crippled.

We have an obligation to tell our politicians what we want, to vote against politicians of whatever party who do not understand the value of reading in creating worthwhile citizens, who do not want to act to preserve and protect knowledge and encourage literacy. This is not a matter of party politics. This is a matter of common humanity.

Albert Einstein was asked once how we could make our children intelligent. His reply was both simple and wise. “If you want your children to be intelligent,” he said, “read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” He understood the value of reading, and of imagining. I hope we can give our children a world in which they will read, and be read to, and imagine, and understand.

• This is an edited version of Neil Gaiman’s lecture for the Reading Agency, delivered on Monday October 14 at the Barbican in London. The Reading Agency’s annual lecture series was initiated in 2012 as a platform for leading writers and thinkers to share original, challenging ideas about reading and libraries.

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