The Library Book, by Susan Orlean
There are, roughly speaking, two types of readers.
One type is the book-buying type. The hoarding type. I fall into that category. I love to own books. Every now and then, when I miss my books, I rearrange them (which, apparently, I have in common with Bill Clinton). Sometimes I get a little distressed over whether my various copies of Beowulf (which, I swear, are breeding on my shelf on their own), all my books about Tolkien, and my books by Tolkien should all be sorted together, or should be sorted by alphabetical order. Should my signed copies of books be sorted onto a special shelf? Or should they be mixed up with the others? Stored in stacks, or with their spines vertical? (This last dilemma is being solved for me because, in general, you can fit more books if they're stacked, and I am rapidly running out of space). I dream of one day owning enough books that I can endow my own library. I keep some books that I didn't really enjoy just because I feel like I should have those books on my shelves, lest someone consider me not to be well-read. When I'm really anxious or depressed, I go to a bookstore.
The other type is the book-borrower. They love libraries. They love the infinite store of knowledge and sharing a communal space with other readers and also probably love not shelling out ridiculous sums of money on books (this seems reasonable. I have to actually budget for books.) Also, they may not have the space to store hundreds of books. They probably get the same frisson of excitement I feel when handling a used book, which involves imagining all the people who touched and loved that book before them. I suspect that, when anxious, these people go to a library.
It's not that I didn't value libraries before. I have always thought they are important. I was just raised going to bookstores. My parents frequently took us to bookstores after dinners out, and to this day the present most guaranteed to be an easy win for the gifter is a Barnes & Noble gift card. I have a lot of memories at bookstores. But The Library Book, by Susan Orlean might be moving me into the book-borrowing camp. It is a spectacular book for someone who loves reading. It's a love letter to libraries, and at the same time a fascinating look into both the history of the Los Angeles Public Library system and the 1986 fire that destroyed the LA Central Library. It skips in time from the present day to the date of the fire and the library's recovery, and all the way back to its founding and everything between. Each chapter is preceded by book titles loosely relating to the subject matter of that chapter, which I found to be a nice touch. Chapter 1, for example, begins with the following titles: Stories to Begin On; Begin Now - To Enjoy Tomorrow; A Good Place to Begin; To Begin at the Beginning. Chapter 2, where the fire begins to make an appearance, starts with these books: Fire!: 38 Lifesaving Tips for You and Your Family; Fire Behavior and Sprinklers; Fire: Friend or Foe; Fire! The Library Is Burning.
Orlean does not draw a conclusion as to whether Harry Peak, the aspiring actor who was accused of setting the fire, was the real culprit, nor does she even give an answer as to whether the fire was deliberately set (though, apparently, people are assholes who regularly set fire to libraries, a fact which has led to book returns being separated from main library buildings all over the country). Harry emerges as a bumbling, possibly slightly mad, genial loser who is incapable of telling the truth or even keeping one lie straight. For its part, the Central Library was at the time of the fire an absolute death trap, with faulty wiring, no sprinkler system (which was common, water being a bigger enemy to books than fire), and a layout that seems to have been designed more to feed a monster fire than to make books easy to find. In fact, fire fighters reported that the library fire actually reached stoichiometry, a word that I only learned in this book, but is a circumstance almost impossible to reach outside laboratory conditions in which there is the exact right combination of food and fuel. The flames, according to reports, actually burned clear or slightly blue. The temperature climbed as high as 2500 degrees Fahrenheit (beeteedubs, Ray Bradbury grew up reading at this very library, and wrote Fahrenheit 451 at one of the LA branch libraries). Water sprayed on the fire turned to steam instantly.
It's hard to imagine a more dramatic situation for a book lover. I actually cried when I got to the recitations of all the books that were lost, which included over 400,000 burned and 700,000 damaged, including irreplaceable books from the sixteenth century, photographs, patent filings from the Western United States. No one was killed, but a number of fire fighters suffered burns, heat exhaustion, and smoke inhalation.
It's hard to convey how well the author creates a feeling of suspense. I had chills when I got to the line "the temperature reached 451 degrees." I cannot recommend this book enough.
One type is the book-buying type. The hoarding type. I fall into that category. I love to own books. Every now and then, when I miss my books, I rearrange them (which, apparently, I have in common with Bill Clinton). Sometimes I get a little distressed over whether my various copies of Beowulf (which, I swear, are breeding on my shelf on their own), all my books about Tolkien, and my books by Tolkien should all be sorted together, or should be sorted by alphabetical order. Should my signed copies of books be sorted onto a special shelf? Or should they be mixed up with the others? Stored in stacks, or with their spines vertical? (This last dilemma is being solved for me because, in general, you can fit more books if they're stacked, and I am rapidly running out of space). I dream of one day owning enough books that I can endow my own library. I keep some books that I didn't really enjoy just because I feel like I should have those books on my shelves, lest someone consider me not to be well-read. When I'm really anxious or depressed, I go to a bookstore.
The other type is the book-borrower. They love libraries. They love the infinite store of knowledge and sharing a communal space with other readers and also probably love not shelling out ridiculous sums of money on books (this seems reasonable. I have to actually budget for books.) Also, they may not have the space to store hundreds of books. They probably get the same frisson of excitement I feel when handling a used book, which involves imagining all the people who touched and loved that book before them. I suspect that, when anxious, these people go to a library.
It's not that I didn't value libraries before. I have always thought they are important. I was just raised going to bookstores. My parents frequently took us to bookstores after dinners out, and to this day the present most guaranteed to be an easy win for the gifter is a Barnes & Noble gift card. I have a lot of memories at bookstores. But The Library Book, by Susan Orlean might be moving me into the book-borrowing camp. It is a spectacular book for someone who loves reading. It's a love letter to libraries, and at the same time a fascinating look into both the history of the Los Angeles Public Library system and the 1986 fire that destroyed the LA Central Library. It skips in time from the present day to the date of the fire and the library's recovery, and all the way back to its founding and everything between. Each chapter is preceded by book titles loosely relating to the subject matter of that chapter, which I found to be a nice touch. Chapter 1, for example, begins with the following titles: Stories to Begin On; Begin Now - To Enjoy Tomorrow; A Good Place to Begin; To Begin at the Beginning. Chapter 2, where the fire begins to make an appearance, starts with these books: Fire!: 38 Lifesaving Tips for You and Your Family; Fire Behavior and Sprinklers; Fire: Friend or Foe; Fire! The Library Is Burning.
Orlean does not draw a conclusion as to whether Harry Peak, the aspiring actor who was accused of setting the fire, was the real culprit, nor does she even give an answer as to whether the fire was deliberately set (though, apparently, people are assholes who regularly set fire to libraries, a fact which has led to book returns being separated from main library buildings all over the country). Harry emerges as a bumbling, possibly slightly mad, genial loser who is incapable of telling the truth or even keeping one lie straight. For its part, the Central Library was at the time of the fire an absolute death trap, with faulty wiring, no sprinkler system (which was common, water being a bigger enemy to books than fire), and a layout that seems to have been designed more to feed a monster fire than to make books easy to find. In fact, fire fighters reported that the library fire actually reached stoichiometry, a word that I only learned in this book, but is a circumstance almost impossible to reach outside laboratory conditions in which there is the exact right combination of food and fuel. The flames, according to reports, actually burned clear or slightly blue. The temperature climbed as high as 2500 degrees Fahrenheit (beeteedubs, Ray Bradbury grew up reading at this very library, and wrote Fahrenheit 451 at one of the LA branch libraries). Water sprayed on the fire turned to steam instantly.
It's hard to imagine a more dramatic situation for a book lover. I actually cried when I got to the recitations of all the books that were lost, which included over 400,000 burned and 700,000 damaged, including irreplaceable books from the sixteenth century, photographs, patent filings from the Western United States. No one was killed, but a number of fire fighters suffered burns, heat exhaustion, and smoke inhalation.
It's hard to convey how well the author creates a feeling of suspense. I had chills when I got to the line "the temperature reached 451 degrees." I cannot recommend this book enough.
Comments
Post a Comment