![\"Steph](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/miro.medium.com\/v2\/resize%3Afill%3A64%3A64\/1%2A5V78DRxRPoGhuXyYTdS9qQ.jpeg?resize=32%2C32&ssl=1\")
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n One of the best things about being in my late thirties is that, back in 1991, I was the perfect age to take in Disney\u2019s Beauty and the Beast<\/em> when it first hit the big screen. The film left quite an impression on me, and no part more than when Belle first sees the library that Beast has built for her. The room itself is vast and spacious, with high vaulted ceilings, shelves upon shelves of books that require ladders to reach, and where ladders won\u2019t do, magnificently ornate spiral staircases \u2014 the stuff a 5-year-old girl\u2019s dreams are made of. We understand that the library is Belle\u2019s happy place \u2014 a refuge wherein she can escape the realities of everyday life and get lost in the magical world that is storytelling.<\/p>\n Over three decades have passed since then, and although I haven\u2019t found a library quite like Belle\u2019s yet, I\u2019ve nonetheless rarely encountered one that I didn\u2019t like. Libraries featured as cozy sanctuaries throughout my childhood, youth, and adult memories: being read to aloud after school (Roald Dahl\u2019s The Witches, <\/em>with different voices for each witch, of course), perusing any and all magazines I could get my hands on, and feeling insufferably important on gaining special permission to borrow restricted books in college.<\/p>\n Of course it goes beyond the books \u2014 there\u2019s a vibe shift the moment you walk through the doors of any library. I\u2019ve always been a sucker for peace and quiet, and minus the children\u2019s room, the library could always be counted on to deliver this in spades. This is a big part of its staying power \u2014 although reading has declined, the chaos of modern life has not, and people flock to these strongholds of silence for a chance to think and work without the noise we encounter everywhere else.<\/p>\n And so, when I found myself unemployed, officeless and looking to get some writing done, the Brooklyn Public Library was the obvious choice. I loaded up a tote with my laptop, notebook, and virtue-signaling reusable coffee mug, and headed over.<\/p>\n Not five minutes after I\u2019d settled at a faux-wood carrell on the building\u2019s upper level, a fellow patron began to cough \u2014 a deep, hacking cough that set off my post-covid paranoia. Soon another person was talking on the phone, and a third sat down across from me and began to unpack her lunch from a crinkly Starbucks paper bag. She was slurping her soup when a man a few tables away began to snore. \u201cUnbelievable\u201d, the slurper exclaimed, to no one in particular. It was.<\/p>\n Most of my recent library visits have been marked by some version of this experience. My initial reaction was one of frustration. I complained to anyone who would listen of how people had lost all manner of etiquette. I toyed with writing something that would lament the bygone golden age of silence, wracking my brain for a play on words that featured an RIP<\/em> to the library, but would imply that resting in peace was no longer an option as peace itself is what has died (I still haven\u2019t quite worked it out \u2014 suggestions welcome). To afford myself some sort of foundation on which to build the essay, I read up on what other people had to say about the state of libraries.<\/p>\n There were several recurring themes; places to promote literacy, support education, and foster community. But above all these things, or perhaps underscoring them, is connection. Libraries are spaces where we connect \u2014 with ideas, with stories, with people.<\/p>\n Of course, now that we\u2019re all connected all the time, libraries are undergoing something of an identity crisis. They can\u2019t do what they were traditionally meant to do, because the knowledge which they were long the safeguarders of is now on the cloud. We no longer go to the library to browse the stacks, or enlist the help of our local librarian. We go there instead with our laptops, headphones, and a desire to tune out our surroundings. This has been my experience anyways, and I realized that, by using it as a study hall, not only was I morphing into a cranky and resentful cynic, I was also missing out on everything I had loved about the library when I was younger. I had, in my rigid view of how it ought to serve my present needs, lost sight of the magical elements that have always made it so special.<\/p>\n I have no idea how this series will unfold. I\u2019ve resolved to visit the library for one hundred days, none of which will have an agenda. I want to use this time to reconnect with ideas beyond the ones on my screen. The plan is to observe my surroundings: to get lost in the stacks, to see things I might have missed, to rediscover the magic. And of course, to write it all down and put it on the internet.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/miro.medium.com\/v2\/resize:fit:640\/format:webp\/1*897tOXFHq3TtOM3mpaZ3vQ.jpeg)
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What Makes a Happy Place?<\/h2>\n
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RIP, Peace and Quiet<\/h2>\n
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Connecting 2.0(24)<\/h2>\n