On libraries.

I grew up in a small mining town in the Central Belt of Scotland, just as time was called on the mining industry. Our town, whilst never a cultural hub, declined further, and, by the time I was a teenager, didn’t have much in the way of opportunities for young people to expand their horizons. What we did have, however, was our library. It was an unremarkable little building, no more than 15 feet high on the left (adult lending), less than 8 feet high to the right (children’s) and the desk area had a ceiling so low that a man of even average height could reach up and place his hand flat on the ceiling (my dad, at 6 feet tall, always seemed too big when he stood there, as if the space around him had contracted).

My parents were keen on encouraging us to read. As a younger child, I worked my way through most of Roald Dahl’s books, as well as Enid Blyton, Dick King-Smith and countless others. As I got a little older I devoured the Asterix books by Uderzo and Goscinny, before moving on to Jack London’s Call of The Wild, the beautiful To Kill A Mockingbird, The Hound Of The Baskervilles, and A LOT of short science fiction, as well as others which didn’t make as much of an impression. Some books didn’t do much for me, some were merely a pleasant distraction, while others grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go. Animal Farm was an immensely important book for me, and still is, and without my local library I probably wouldn’t have read it until I was much older. I moved into my late teens with my love of reading still intact (coupled with a large dose of teenage pretentiousness), and no matter what request I threw at the librarians at my local branch, they got what I asked for at least nine times out of ten (including sending a request to Aberdeen for an Allen Ginsberg poetry collection I wanted). Nothing was ever a problem for them, and it showed in their actions as well as their words.

As I said, my local library was a small building, but I never felt claustrophobic there. It was a place which stored infinite possibilities, a place where I could travel wherever I wanted, back and forward in time, to situations I had never, and, in some cases, could never have experienced otherwise. Furthermore, the idea that I could take almost any one of these books home to read, for free, was incredible to me. Let’s take a moment to consider that now, because I think we take it for granted a little as adults. Shelf upon shelf of books, covering a range of subjects, styles and genres and, with the exception of reference books, you can take them away for weeks at a time, without paying anyone any money, to enjoy at your own pace. This is one of the greatest things we, as a society, have at our disposal. The size or appearance of the building is not important, what books are on the shelf is only marginally more so. What is important is that libraries continue to exist, continue to provide the service they do, and continue to inspire future generations. Without my local library, my literary journey would have been shorter, my education narrower and my current occupation unlikely. Libraries breed readers, but they also breed librarians. Librarians who will seek out that elusive title for the awkward teenager, or the favourite picture book that was thrown out at home by mistake. Librarians who look at what their patrons read, and suggest other authors and books they may like. Librarians who continue to support free access to books to anyone who wants them. That, in itself, is a legacy worth protecting.