University Library

Solitary Spaces 

The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams. - Eleanor Roosevelt

Books were my place.

Plenty of dreams inside books.

So it may not be a surprise to you if I say that the reserved section of the university's main library was my favorite solitary place during my college days. 

On my final year as an English major, we were given access to the otherwise off-limits book collection so we could freely roam the stacks as we worked on our thesis papers.

I recall walking thru its doors, enveloped in the familiar peace of its high ceiling. The elegant, intellectual clutter. The air smelling of leather bindings, and quietly of paper.

Immediately, I was surrounded by bookshelves that reached from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by doors and windows. 

Books, hundreds of them. Old books on towering shelves.

I made a survey of the titles. The books, advertising all sorts of psychological behavior, were wedged tightly together and seemed not to have been read in a very long time.

The nearest volumes seemed to be histories, though many of the spines were hard to read in the low light. Dusty journals. A handful of National Geographics with curled-up corners. On the top shelf was a dusty green tome with gold lettering.

Not surprisingly, the place was empty (for this was a place only for the elite, I'd like to think.) This was a repository of ancient knowledge, completely different from what I had studied in the course of my many dry-as-dust lectures at the university.

For hours, I would wander, letting my hand brush across avenues of exposed spines, breathing in the smell of old paper and dust. Sometimes, I'd yank down a few volumes from their dusty haven, thumbing through pages and scanning for watermarks - an indication of first editions, I had learned.

Then, slipping into the literary criticism section, I fingered the edges of some volumes as my forehead crinkled in thought. I continued to turn pages, scrutinizing each one.

I really needed to start working on my thesis on Blake.

Seeking a warmly sunlit corner of the library, I finally settled with a few books that I had arranged on the top shelf of one of the carrels. I began to read and let the sunlight slanting through the window warm my downturned head and shoulders.

Reverently, I let my fingers glide over delightful discoveries of critical insights, new details, strands of images, and leitmotivs interlaced in Blake's poetry.

With that, and the musty scent of books, I could swear that I could hear the faint stirring of a tiger

Burning bright, in the forests of the night. 

What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

The massive emptiness of the university library was my place for dreaming especial dreams. The private times I had spent within were perhaps the most singular joy of my college days.

No other times did I feel that I had lived so fully.