Complete summary of On Libraries by
Oliver Sacks
The writer begins the essay "On Libraries" by
describing his childhood. As a child, his favorite room at his home was the
library. The library was well organized. It was a large, oak-paneled room.
The four walls of the room were covered by a bookcase. There was a table for
writing and studying in the middle of the room. The library belonged to his
parents. His father was a Hebrew scholar. The writer spent most of the time
in the library. The writer read adventure and history books belonging to his
three older brothers. His mother had her favorite books in a separate
bookcase in the lounge. My parents' medical books were kept in a special
locked cabinet during my parents’ surgery.
But the key was in the door, so it was easy to unlock.
The oak-paneled library was the quietest and most beautiful
room in the house, and so it was his favorite place to be. He spent several
hours reading books in the library. Whenever he was late for lunch or dinner,
he could be found in the library. The writer learned to read when he was
three or four years old.
The writer, then, talks about the local library, named
Willesden Public Library. He visited the library in his growing-up years. The
library was a five-minute walk from his house. It was the library where he
received his real education.
The writer said that he didn’t like receiving instruction
and information at school. He disliked schools. He wanted to read about the
topics that piqued his interest the most. At school, he was not a good
student, as the world judges a good student. However, he was a good learner.
In Willesden Library and other libraries that he went to in his life, they
offered him the chance to read the book of his choice freely.
As he grew older, his interest in reading shifted toward
astronomy and chemistry. When the writer was twelve years old, he was
admitted to St. Paul’s School. There was a general library named Walker
Library. The library was full of historical and political books. But the
writer had no interest in them. One of his teachers offered him access to the
library of the Science Museum, where he read science books.
When he went to university, he had access to Oxford’s two
great university libraries: the Radcliffe Science Library and the Bodleian.
In the library, he read books by Theodore Hook. His book inspired the writer
to write a sort of biography of him. The library he most loved at Oxford was
their own library at Queen’s College. The magnificent library building itself
was designed by Christopher Wren. The Queen's library introduced him to the
works of writers such as Johnson, Hume, Pope, and Dryden from the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries.
The writer, after that, came to New York City in 1965 from
London. In New York City, he had a horrid, little apartment in which there
were almost no surfaces to read or write on. He wanted spaciousness.
Fortunately, the library at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, where I
worked, had this plenty of space for reading. At the library, he sometimes
discovered unexpected books and knowledge that the books offered. Since
everyone in the library had similar desires, there was a sense of community
and intimacy among the readers.
However, a shift was occurring by the 1990s. Although the
writer continued visiting libraries and sat in front of many books, students
increasingly ignored the bookshelves, accessing what they needed with their
computers. The students hardly went to the shelves. The students didn’t pay
any concern to the physical books. Since the majority of users were no longer
using the books themselves, the college decided, ultimately, to dispose of
them.
The writer was disappointed with the changing scenario of
the libraries, particularly with the idea of replacing the books. When the
writer noticed that the books were being thrown out, he felt that a murder, a
crime had been committed. He objected to what was happening and expressed his
dissatisfaction with a librarian. The librarian reassured him that everything
"of worth" had been digitized. The writer thought of how the
library once valued "old" books, had a special room for old and
rare books; and how in 1967, searching through the stacks, he had found an
1873 book, Edward Liveing’s Megrim, which inspired the writer to write his
own first book.
|
On Libraries by Oiver Sacks [Original
Text]
When I was a child, my favorite room at home was the
library, a large oak-paneled room with all four walls covered by
bookcases—and a solid table for writing and studying in the middle. It was
here that my father had his special library, as a Hebrew scholar; here too
were all of Ibsen’s plays—my parents had originally met in a medical
students’ Ibsen
society; here, on a single shelf, were the young poets of my father’s
generation, many killed in the Great War; and here, on the lower shelves so I
could easily reach them, were the adventure and history books belonging to my
three older brothers. It was here that I found The Jungle Book; I identified
deeply with Mowgli, and used his adventures as a taking-off point for my own
fantasies.
My mother had her favorite books in a separate bookcase in
the lounge—Dickens, Trollope, and Thackeray, Bernard Shaw’s plays in pale
green bindings, as well as an entire set of Kipling bound in soft morocco. There
was a beautiful three-volume set of Shakespeare’s works, a gilt-edged Milton,
and other books, mostly poetry, that my mother had got as school prizes.
Medical books were kept in a special locked cabinet in my
parents’ surgery (but the key was in the door, so it was easy to unlock).
The oak-paneled library was the quietest and most beautiful
room in the house, to my eyes, and it vied with my little lab as my favorite
place to be. I would curl up in a chair and become so absorbed in what I was
reading that all sense of time would be lost. Whenever I was late for lunch
or dinner I could be found, completely absorbed by a book, in the library. I
learned to read early, at three or four, and books, and our library, are
among my first memories.
But the Ur-library, for me, was the Willesden Public
Library, our own local public library. Here I spent many of the happiest
hours of my growing-up years—our house was a five-minute walk from the
library—and it was there I received my real education.
On the whole, I disliked school, sitting in class,
receiving instruction; information seemed to go in one ear and out by the
other. I could not be passive—I had to be active, learn for myself, learn
what I wanted, and in the way which suited me best. I was not a good pupil, but
I was a good learner, and in Willesden Library—and all the libraries that
came later—I roamed the shelves and stacks, had the freedom to select
whatever I wanted, to follow paths which fascinated me, to become myself. At
the library I felt free—free to look at the thousands, tens of thousands, of
books; free to roam and to enjoy the special atmosphere and the quiet
companionship of other readers, all, like myself, on quests of their own.
As I got older, my reading was increasingly biased towards
the sciences, especially astronomy and chemistry. St. Paul’s School, where I
went when I was twelve, had an excellent general library, the Walker Library,
which was particularly heavy in history and politics—but it could not provide
all of the science and especially chemistry books I now hungered for. But
with a special testimonial from one of the school masters, I was able to get
a ticket to the library of the Science Museum, and there I devoured the many
volumes of Mellor’s Comprehensive Treatise on Inorganic and Theoretical
Chemistry and the even-longer Gmelin’s Handbook of Inorganic Chemistry.
When I went to university, I had access to Oxford’s two
great university libraries, the Radcliffe Science Library and the Bodleian, a
wonderful general library that could trace itself back to 1602. It was in the
Bodleian that I stumbled upon the now-obscure and forgotten works of Theodore
Hook, a man greatly admired in the early nineteenth century for his wit and
his genius for theatrical and musical improvisation (he was said to have
composed more than five hundred operas on the spot). I became so fascinated
by Hook that I decided to write a sort of biography or “case-history” of him.
No other library—apart from the British Museum Library—could have provided
the materials I needed, and the tranquil atmosphere of the Bodleian was a
perfect one in which to write.
But the library I most loved at Oxford was our own library
at the Queen’s College. The magnificent library building itself had been
designed by Christopher Wren, and beneath this, in an underground maze of
heating pipes and shelves, were the vast subterranean holdings of the
library. To hold ancient books, incunabula, in my own hands was a new
experience for me—I particularly adored Gesner’s Historiae Animalium (1551),
richly illustrated with Dürer’s drawing of a rhinoceros and Agassiz’s
four-volume work on fossil fishes. It
was there, too, that I saw all of Darwin’s works in their original editions,
and it was in the stacks that I found and fell in love with all the works
of Sir Thomas Browne—his Religio
Medici, his Hydrotaphia, and The Garden of Cyrus (The Quincunciall Lozenge).
How absurd some of these were, but how magnificent the language! And if
Browne’s classical magniloquence became too much at times, one could switch
to the lapidary cut-and-thrust of Swift—all of whose works, of course, were
there in their original editions. While I had grown up on the
nineteenth-century works that my parents favored, it was the catacombs of the
Queen’s library that introduced me to seventeenth- and eighteenth-century
literature—John-son, Hume, Pope, and Dryden. All of these books were freely
available, not in some special, locked-away rare books enclave, but just
sitting on the shelves, as they had done (I imagined) since their original
publication. It was in the vaults of the Queen’s College that I really gained
a sense of history, and of my own language.
I first came to New York City in 1965, and at that time I
had a horrid, pokey little apartment in which there were almost no surfaces
to read or write on. I was just able,
holding an elbow awkwardly aloft, to write some of Migraine on the top of the
refrigerator. I longed for spaciousness. Fortunately, the library at the
Albert Einstein College of Medicine, where I worked, had this in abundance. I
would sit at a large table to read or write for a while, and then wander
around the shelves and stacks. I never knew what my eyes might alight upon,
but I would sometimes discover unexpected treasures, lucky finds, and bring
these back to my seat.
Though the library was quiet, whispered conversations might
start in the stacks— two of you, perhaps, were searching for the same old
book, the same bound volumes of Brain from 1890—and conversations could lead
to friendships. All of us in the library were reading our own books, absorbed
in our own worlds, and yet there was a sense of community, even intimacy. The
physicality of books—along with their places and their neighbors on the
bookshelves—was part of this camaraderie: handling books, sharing them,
passing them between us, even seeing the names of previous readers and the
dates they took books out.
But a shift was occurring by the 1990s. I would continue to
visit the library frequently, sitting at a table with a mountain of books in
front of me, but students increasingly ignored the bookshelves, accessing
what they needed with their computers. Few of them went to the shelves
anymore. The books, so far as they were concerned, were unnecessary. And
since the majority of users were no longer using the books themselves, the
college decided, ultimately, to dispose of them.
I had no idea that this was happening—not only in the AECOM
library but in college and public libraries all over the country. I was
horrified when I visited the library a couple of months ago and found the
shelves, once overflowing, sparsely occupied. Over the last few years, most
of the books, it seems, have been thrown out, with remarkably little
objection from anyone. I felt that a murder, a crime had been committed—the destruction
of centuries of knowledge. Seeing my distress, a librarian reassured me that
everything “of worth” had been digitized. But I do not use a computer, and I
am deeply saddened by the loss of books, even bound periodicals, for there is
something irreplaceable about a physical book: its look, its smell, its heft.
I thought of how the library once cherished “old” books, had a special room
for old and rare books; and how in 1967, rummaging through the stacks, I had
found an 1873 book, Edward Liveing’s Megrim, which inspired me to write my
own first book.
Oliver Sacks, a writer and neurologist, was the author of
over a dozen books, including Hallucinations, Musicophilia, Awakenings, The
Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, and On the Move. He died on August 30,
2015.
|