Like a Kid in a Candy Store: A Nostalgic Return to the Bookshelf

Shivering as my body dispersed its own cloud of cold breath by walking through it, I regarded my less-frequented side of campus with a sense of delighted unfamiliarity. The golden morning was as crisp as a bag of kettle chips, beautifully illuminating the brick library in the distance. Upon entering, I was confronted by overwhelming choice: endless rows of tables, couches, and other seating each beckoned me with fervor, and tall bookshelves packed tightly with thick reads loomed overhead. Some students milled about the library expertly, while others  absorbed by books and laptops aiding in their disciplined pursuits of intelligence sat silently. Gingerly, I sank down into the nearest armchair and pulled out my laptop in hopes of gaining guidance enough from the library website to pluck a few pieces off the shelves without having to break the stillness to consult a library employee.

Inside the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum in Glasgow, Scotland

            After a discouraging hour or so of unsuccessfully searching titles that could be potentially be found in the library on an online database, I looked up with a dejected sigh. Perhaps the sight of abounding resources made me realize that through the university, I may have a free subscription to the New York Times. A few furious keystrokes unlocked a treasure trove of their articles. Gone were the days of being captivated by the first few sentences of a potentially game-changing piece of evidence for a research paper, only to be cut off by the deflating words, “subscribe to read more.” This time, I came away with an abundance of current examples of dance criticism to inform my own understanding of the craft for my blog, which is a part of my senior thesis. I spent the next hour happily skimming and bookmarking articles to read more in depth later. My head returned to its normal upright position with a satisfied smile. It faded with the realization that I had spent the last two hours on my computer searching digital articles, when there were three full floors of physical books awaiting my perusal.

Inside the St. Giles Cathedral on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, Scotland

 I stood up resolutely and took a deep breath, deciding to start with the small, hip-height shelves of new popular reads. Within seconds, I was enthralled by the number of interesting titles available for free on these shelves. Many of these books had previously caught my eye at bookstores, but had enthusiasm-dampening price tags. Although my lower body ached from squatting to regard each work of literature carefully, the vast knowledge-expanding opportunity in front of me compelled me forward. Before I knew it, I resembled my elementary-school self on library day, waltzing through the space excitedly with an armful of books soon to be carefully scrutinized and chosen between. One of my chosen books was Cal Newport’s Digital Minimalism. Little did I know, this work would end up transforming my relationship with technology over the next few weeks and ultimately inspire my Honors senior thesis on digital capitalism and attention economics.

Before I knew it, I had deliberately browsed every shelf on the ground floor. Dare I descend into the basement? Dare I relinquish my need to know exactly what title I was looking for and its precise location? My mind’s eye pictured me back in London last semester, having no data and thus no choice but to boldly release my need for control and prior knowledge before doing something or going somewhere. It was then that I decided that I would let myself happily get lost in the shelves just like I had wandered the streets and museums of London contentedly, relying on my inner compass alone. A quick glance at my watch determined that I had time to continue browsing before my first class. Like Alice in Wonderland, I eagerly jumped down the rabbit hole that would be the basement full of every periodical that anyone could imagine. Awash with an astounding sense of reawakened creative exhilaration, I simultaneously experienced the pleasant anguish that comes with the knowledge that I will likely never get to read every single book of interest in this or any library. I pictured myself standing in the lobby of the famed British Library once again, staring upwards at the floors upon floors of famous works dating back to the Middle Ages. There, I experienced the same feeling of inspiration with a pang of grief over the knowledge I will never obtain. But herein lies what I love about writing: the opportunity to search deeply into topics of interest and never stop learning, growing, and improving not just as a writer, but as a human being. This pursuit is what I want to dedicate my life to. And if that’s an excuse to spend all my spare time in museums and art galleries and libraries, and theaters and cathedrals, that’s all the more reason.

Inside the lobby of the British Library

            I emerged from the depths not just with an armful of books, but a look into my soul: the titles encompassing cooking, dance history, creative nonfiction, and digital minimalism all represented thoughts that occupied my mind, skills I wanted to improve, or topics I desired to investigate further. Crossing the threshold back into reality as the morning cold bit my face, I looked back at the library with a bittersweet feeling. For four years, I had bypassed physical books in favor of quicker acquisition of digital articles in to meet demanding paper deadlines. However, that avoidance ultimately contributed to the serendipitous magic of the morning’s events, and I am grateful to have had that experience before graduation.

Outside the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art