Book 40: In the Stacks

In the Stacks: Short Stories About Libraries and Librarians

Edited by Michael Cart

As someone whose two professional jobs have been in academic libraries, how could I possibly pass over In the Stacks when I stumbled across it, and I promise that this is absolutely true, in the stacks? The simple answer is that I couldn't, and I picked it up hoping to find a selection of stories that illustrate and explore some of the inherent variety of my chosen profession. Although some of the authors do engage relevant themes, I was disappointed to find that the authors use librarians and librarians almost incidentally; and while this certainly a valid way to construct a story (I hardly expect every story to laud everything that I happen to find important), this tendency is more than a little disingenuous in a collection whose stated purpose is to collect stories on that theme. Sure, each story includes at least one library or librarian, but only a handful are particularly concerned with their impact or meaning. This is even more baffling when considering that editor Michael Cart deliberately chose preexisting publications, rather than being forced to work with new submissions.

The collection is further limited by a noticeable lack of editorial context: Cart provides no introductory notes, and it can often be difficult to discern when and where, exactly, a particular story is supposed to be taking place. This creates an unpleasant sense of confusion and contributes to the difficulty in distinguishing between many of the stories, even immediately after reading them. Relatively simple solutions, such as an obvious organizing principle, individual introductory notes, or endnotes that actually mention the selected stories, are, alas, absent. Cart somewhat compounds the problem in his introductory remarks, which bafflingly characterize Ursula K. LeGuin's excellent "The Phoenix" as "impossible to classify", despite the fact that it is a relatively straightforward thought experiment that takes place in a vaguely European city that conforms largely to our expectations of reality (even if the setting itself is, strictly speaking, a fictional one). I was, however, pleased to find a traditional detective story (Anthony Boucher's "QL 696.C9"), although it hinges on a supposedly mysterious clue that should be immediately obvious to anyone who has used a college library, let alone worked in one. More entertaining is "Ed Has His Mind Improved" by Walter R. Brooks, which features the droll wit of everyone's favorite talking horse. I even appreciated some of the stories that rely on more stereotypical portrayals of librarians, such as Zona Gale's "The Cobweb", when they featured these characters in a meaningful way. But though some may be wonderful in their own right, they feel woefully out of place here, cheapening the collection and the profession in the process.

Nonetheless, the collection's generally blasé attitude doesn't entirely detract from the power of its best stories, which (perhaps unsurprisingly) tend to be those that focus on librarians' devotion to their work. "The Phoenix" is as powerful a meditation on the librarian's charge as Italo Calvino's now-canonical "A General in the Library", and I appreciate the way that these authors, along with Isaac Babel (whose "The Public Library" is similar, but less subtle), prominently feature libraries and examine the librarians' various roles within their communities. It is surely unsurprising that Ray Bradbury's "Exchange" is easily the best of the lot, gently guiding and then altering the reader's view of the librarian in question, ultimately drawing tears in its simple, understated beauty and appreciation for the very best librarians. And so every short story anthology has a few standout stories at either end of the spectrum, but the greatest failure of this particular attempt is the large number of stories that are instantly forgettable. In the Stacks seems destined to disappoint, both because of the generally underwhelming quality of the stories within and those stories' disappointing lack of engagement with the book's stated theme.

Grade: B-

Book 5: The Map Thief

The Map Thief: The Gripping Story of an Esteemed Rare-map Dealer Who Made Millions Stealing Priceless Maps

Michael Blanding

Michael Blanding came to the library where I work a few months ago to promote this book, and, finding him to be a very engaging speaker telling a story that resonates with me personally and professionally, I decided to read his book. Though I didn't find The Map Thief to be quite as interesting as its author's talk, it is a solid example of accessible nonfiction. Blanding begins from a point of strength: the main plot of his story- a high roller in the rare map trade steals his wares from some of the country's most prestigious libraries- is immediately compelling, rife with opportunities for rich characterization and insights into the human psyche. What emerges instead is almost a parable, the story of a man whose honest enthusiasm and earnestness led him to become suffocated by his best intentions. Though Blanding does not sacrifice the integrity of his story to create a flattering portrait of its protagonist, his vivid portrayal of E. Forbes Smiley remains a less than fully realized psychological portrait; he hesitates to draw conclusions and/or to make connections that might make Smiley's story resonate beyond its immediate and obvious facts and ramifications. One gets the feeling that the book was written with a potential libel suit in mind, and Blanding carefully relies on insinuation and hearsay rather than direct accusation- though he somewhat subtly invites readers to guess what his personal opinions might be.

Such a tale, of course, cannot exist in a vacuum, and Blanding does attempt to place Smiley's crimes in their proper context, providing a brief history of some of the maps that figure prominently in the story. Though the history he provides is relevant and reasonably succinct, it relies far too heavily on lists of names and utilizes terms that may not be familiar to a general audience; I'm accustomed to thinking about this kind of thing, but I often found myself lost in a sea of facts without context. It is hard enough to remember which mapmakers owe what to who, and harder still to presume what aspects of this lineage- if any- fit into Smiley's tale, and how. Thus, these chapters and asides feel disconnected from the main narrative despite containing information that is crucial to fully understanding it, and the various threads are never successfully integrated. Moreover, Blanding is also the victim of an almost impossibly terrible layout that places each and every illustration- vitally important and welcome in a book that focuses so heavily on a visual medium- far away from any textual references to it. This intolerable situation is only exacerbated by a division that includes both black-and-white illustrations within the text (numbered numerically) and a group of colored plates (numbered alphabetically); at some point, I gave up entirely on digging through the text, as the visual enhancements simply weren't worth the effort. While this admittedly isn't Blanding's fault, it exaggerates the divide between the parts of the book that deal with cartographic history and those that feel more relevant to the story at hand.

In the end, the book simply is what it apparently set out to be: a relatively straightforward account of E. Forbes Smiley, the rare map milieu in which he operated, and (to a lesser extent) the fallout from his sins. As an insider, I cannot speak to the effectiveness of Blanding's efforts to fully convey the scope and ramifications of the thefts, but I do appreciate his attempt to introduce readers to an aspect of librarianship and archival work that is (obviously) near and dear to my heart. Though he should be commended for his ability to maintain his professional composure throughout the text (which is necessary for a tale such as this one), I appreciate the glimpses of subjectivity that shine through the cracks, such as in Blanding's descriptions of one particular dealer (these passages, I suspect, are absolutely dripping with sarcasm and irony) and his discussion of (possible) thefts beyond those that Smiley admitted to. The book is reasonably lively and reflects the author's interest in- and respect for- the subject. Despite some padding and a reluctance to take a deep dive into its primary protagonist's psychology, The Map Thief provides interesting insight into the world of rare maps and the lengths that one man went to maintain appearances and his position in the market.

Grade: B

Book 51: The Library at Night

The Library at Night
Alberto Manguel

I don't get much spare time to read these days, since school has started in full force, and it's strange that I decided to read this book about, of all things, libraries. What Manguel has done in The Library at Night, however, is unique and offers fresh perspectives on libraries and the different functions they can have. The Library at Night is a kind of history of libraries mixed with philosophical ruminations about what libraries are and what they mean to individual users and to humanity at large. Manguel has taken a look at libraries from a variety of viewpoints, addressing their historical aspects as well as their embodiment of the human condition; as pretentious and academic as that sounds, however, there is a lot of thought and sincere love behind this volume that shines throughout. Beginning with an examination of "The Library as Myth" and the ideas that have created and maintained libraries throughout human history and moves through his categories in a distinct and meaninful order. There is no mistake that The Library as Power" follows "The Library as Space" and "The Library as Order"; all of these chapters examine libraries in human contexts and taken together can form a kind of argument about the myriad uses of libraries across and throughout human history. Also interesting is the direct juxtaposition of "The Library as Survival" with "The Library as Oblivion", each of which examines the power of libraries to preserve history and serve as a reminder as to what is lost; not coincidentally, these are followed by a fun look at imaginary libraries, which combine aspects of both survival and oblivion in their peculiar half-existences.

It is refreshing that Manguel resists the urge to make a hard and fast argument and instead allows his topics to mingle freely with one another, just as in "The Library as Order" and "The Library as Chance", which are not coupled directly but which provide interesting contexts to their own surroundings: this is exactly the kind of chance that Manguel describes in these chapters and, surely, they would acquire a different meaning read in the opposite order or with more space between them. This is not to say, however, that The Library at Night succumbs completely to a darkened, chaotic principle: it is obvious that its chapters, though standing enough alone to be interesting quick reads in and of themselves, should be taken together to construct a narrative of the life of libraries. It is no accident either that the book ends with "The Library As Identity" and "The Library As Home", arguably two of the most important themes the book touches upon and themes that will resonate deeply with readers who presumably care enough about the function of libraries to pick up this book in the first place. Manguel's soft and fluid prose guides the reader through a theoretical history of libraries through examples that exemplify the theme of a particular chapter; these are wonderfully balanced between the obvious (Alexandria as "Myth", national libraries as "Identity") and obscure (Aby Warburg as "Mind").

The Library at Night has, at its heart, a love of the library both as an idea and as an institution, extoling the virtues of all kinds of libraries, however small or large. Vanished libraries exist alongside the vast national libraries of Europe; Alexandria appears next to the recently looted Iraq National Library and State Archives and the vanished Jewish volumes from the Holocaust. Manugel mentions his own library a few more times than necessary, but he always relates his personal experience to the theme at hand and his rare vanity is eclipsed by his transparent devotion to his subject matter. With flowery writing that accomplishes precisely its point, Alberto Manguel adds an air of mystique to the concept of the library in many of its incarnations. The Library at Night is sure to please library enthusiasts amateur and professional, those steeped in library history and theory and those who simply go to their closest local repository for the latest Dan Brown. The Library at Night is a loving testament to the idea of the book and should be added to libraries large and small thorughout the world.

Grade: A

Book 45: A Universal History of the Destruction of Books

A Universal History of the Destruction of Books from Ancient Sumer to Modern Iraq
Fernando Báez

First of all, this book is incredibly depressing reading for bibliophiles, but that is hardly the author's fault and, in fact, Báez is to be much credited for his striking account of the history of the wanton disregard for knowledge and freedom that would, ironically, likely seek to destroy his own book. The introduction to this volume explains its aims and does a good job introducing some of the reasons Báez believe lie beneath the desire to burn or otherwise destroy books and the inherent knowledge they contain; though these themes only return intermittently, their initial appearance grounds the book and provides the thoughtful reader with some academic context. Báez has chosen a traditional chronological/geographical approach to the material that works where it is obeyed but, as with other bibliographic histories I've read, becomes quite confusing when the numbers are needlessly fudged; Báez devotes enough separate chapters to nonpsecific causes (natural causes, fictional book destruction, and so on) to warrant a separate section of their own and more in-depth treatment that would have wrapped the book together nicely.

Likewise, Báez also succumbs to that all-too-familiar and easy vice of library historians and occasionally presents little more than lists of libraries and volumes destroyed, placing them in context but failing to make any sense out of the chaos. What is perhaps the best contextual chapter that deals directly with a specific chronological and geographical pattern of destruction is that on the early obliteration of native American cultures by the invading Spanish just post-Columbus. This chapter attempts to explain the motives of the book-destroyers as well as the gravity of the disaster and the sense of loss of these priceless artifacts. Báez achieves in this chapter a kind of gravity he grasps for all too obviously in most of the other chapters and while they are moving and convey a sense of deep cultural loss, none hits so close as this tragic history. The chapters on the monastic zeal of the Middle Ages and the fascist regimes of mid-century are excellent as well in dealing with the motives of those who destroy books, though Spain and Nazi Germany receive far more and better attention than the Soviet Union and China. Most disappointing in the entire volume is the attention given to the recent war in Iraq and the looting that has accompanied the American invasion and occupation; though Báez wraps his whole book up neatly by ending at the very place where books (and therefore libraries) began, his political bias is a bit too brash and the focus far too heavy and long for a period so short and so recent. Báez is to be commended for the scope and readability of his Universal History of the Destruction of Books, which is brilliant and thought-provoking where it delves into the motives of those behind the fire and those who write about destruction, ironically, in books of their own. A Universal History of the Destruction of Book is worthwhile reading though it lacks some context and is a largely sap-free overall look at such a depressing, but necessary, topic.

Grade: B+

Book 42: History of Libraries in the Western World

History of Libraries in the Western World
Michael M. Harris

No, boys and girls, your intrepid reporter did not forget an article in front of that title, which is an incredibly apt fit for this dry, academic text. Harris definitely demonstrates a full grasp of the history of libraries in America and Europe, but what is lacking in this litany of collections and numbers is a great deal of context or intrigue. By and large, History of Libraries in the Western World is, in fact, a list of great libraries throughout the history of the Western World, and the number of books believed to be in those collections. There are entire paragraphs that are naught but lists, meaningless without context or distinguishing remarks and whose numbers exist without contextual note of their relative size to the era. Obviously there is a huge difference between a medieval collection in the hundreds and a modern collection of such paltry standards; Harris makes no note of this, however, and continues merrily to list library after library. This isn't to say that the book is a complete failure, however, though it is just about the driest book I have ever had the misfortune to come across. There is no academic argument and no Great Strand of History herein, but Harris does manage to inadvertently create a general timeline in between his endless, pointless library lists.

The book begins promisingly enough, with its introduction enumerating several factors that go into library creation and maintenance (including economic and political stability), most interestingly positing that libraries represent a kind of power and a thirst for control, being that they are assembled with deliberation and purpose. One may assume that the following pages will illustrate these principles, but political and economic developments are rarely mentioned in the pages that follow, often posing as segways between lists (with the hilarious exception of the contemporary economic crisis, mentioned alarmingly in almost every paragraph of the final sections). One cannot fault Mr. Harris too much for his lack of foresight, but even in 1996 it was obvious that libraries were headed toward a digital age that deserves more than a page's mention in such an epically sweeping volume, where it is relegated to the conclusion. The organization of the book isn't too bad as Harris guides readers from the various cultures of the ancients through the present day, making a necessary pit stop at the eastern Byzantine Empire and organizing his history through geography as much as historical epoch. This works but creates some awkward tension as he moves into the modern era, thoughfully dividing Europe and the Americas but creating entirely different time periods for these chapters without fully explaining why. Sure, it's obvious why the European chapter ends at 1917, but why does America's terminate in 1850, particularly when many collection figures therein are given through the 1870s or even later?

This illustrates a fundamental problem with this book: Harris has no desire to present context or construct an interesting argument, or even a dull one. This book strives to be dryly academic and as such is a great resource but very nearly unreadable. Harris seems to catch stride quite late in the book, where his discussion of the development of European national libraries and the United States's fascination with public libraries (arising out of our democratic tendencies and their bias towards an informed population; also interestingly linked with anti-immigration and Americanization policies), but it is by far too late to salvage the volume. Additionally, the geographic bias of the book is wide-ranging in the early chapters but narrows considerably, with the final European chapter mentioning Eastern Europe (which is still the West) for about one paragraph while focusing extensively on more popular countries, to say nothing of the bare mention of Latin American libraries. Harris seems unsure how to construct an interesting and varied text and though he very usefully divides discussion of modern libraries by type (public, governmental, collegiate/academic, school, and special) he fails to paint a picture as a whole and instead plods along country by country, again and always with the lists. History of Libraries in the Western World is a fairly thorough examination of collections throughout history and contains useful theoretical fodder in its introduction as well as a few interesting bits throughout, but this is not a book to be read lightly as a single, connected narrative; it would find its place, I feel, best in the reference section. But if you want to know the history of the number of volumes at Harvard, this is the place to go.

Grade: C

Book 39: Memory's Library

Memory's Library: Medieval Books in Early Modern England
Jennifer Summit

I must admit that my feeble attempts to properly "review" this book in any way are, in a sense, futile as this is a strictly academic work that presumes (and rightly so) an extensive knowledge of British history right around the Reformation. Knowledge of Middle English is a must and a working familiarity with Latin will benefit the reader, though long Latin citations are thankfully translated while titles stand unintelligibly in the original. My collegiate experience with the English of the period gave me a cursory knowledge on which to understand the book, but Memory's Library is certainly not a tome for the common, average reader, which is too bad because Summit raises some interesting ideas about libraries and their place in society. Summit traces several strands of library history in distinct chapters necessarily linked by their overlap but which each posits a main thesis; Summit never fails to remind the reader that she "is arguing" even though these "arguments" often read more like litanies of facts or obtuse histories, but no matter. Memory's Library employs a somewhat traditional case-study approach to the history of the major libraries of England during the transitional period between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance or, as it is recast here, the transition from monastic libraries to cultivated personal or university collections.

Summit does a good job keeping the overall picture in mind as she transitions from development to development in English library history within and between her chapters, but her account is free from most contextualizing information and the book would be greatly aided with a timeline and/or an appendix with the lifespans of the book's major players, many of whom seem to fade only to pop up in a later chapter, alive and well and corresponding with someone whose history is said to come well after theirs (the chapter about Bacon does this quite egregiously, and much to my confusion). Likewise, there is a lack of a dramatic narrative feeling in this book; Summit is talking about Big Ideas and Grand Developments in History and there is just story after story without attendant, interesting conversations about the meanings of religious censorship or the rise of literacy; it must be said, however, that the book has discussion of English religious development in spades. She is also somewhat repetitive with her quotes, employing large block quotes only to quote each and every line in later discussion, often multiple times. Memory's Library does trace interesting threads of library development in this particularly turbulent period of English history, but it is not meant for the general reader and is highly inaccessible to those not intimately familiar with the history at hand already. There are salient and relevant poitns about the changing function of libraries (such as an engaging discussion of Richard Cotton's library and the emergence of the idea of primary sources), but they are somewhat lost in the endless academic noise.

Grade: B-

Book 35: Library: An Unquiet History

Library: An Unquiet History
Matthew Battles

In keeping with my recent theme of studying up for my, er, study of library science, I checked out this slim volume on the history of the archiving instinct. It is, for its size, fairly comprehensive chronologically as it stretches from the first collections of stone tablets in the Fertile Crescent through the magnificent Alexandria to the humdrum (and infamous) Melvil Dewey and, inexplicably and out of left field, immigrant narratives from turn-of-the-century America. The problem with any slim volume that attempts to be a complete history is that it must, by necessity, contain holes and, though Battles takes an admirable approach, there are too many holes in Library: An Unquiet History. The book does a good job at tracing the history of the library through examples that exemplify the values of libraries for the given time period, but some examples are far better than others and the book gains much momentum as it moves through history. The first chapter is by far the weakest, an inexplicable collection of trivial tidbits that bear no relation to the text at large and which do nothing to set the gears of time in motion or introduce the text at all. Thankfully, the writing improves but Battles maintains a close focus on trivia and a hearty distaste for context that plagues the book until its final third.

Library: An Unquiet History hits several turning points on the library's journey from elite collection to public free-for-all, but it hits them so perfunctorily and completely that any sense of transition is lost; there is no set-up between punches as they just keep coming. Some examples, like Swift's epic Battle of the Books as allegory, are useful but too drawn out in such a slim volume, existing solely for their own sake and over-explaining far too much in such a small study. Other examples, while interesting (such as the mechanization of the book-making process), are well-written but belong in a different volume. The truly shining examples used in this book are the Dewey Decimal System and the ideology of the nineteenth-century libraries it exemplifies as well as the Nazis' rampant book-burnings, both of which are presented with rich context and an examination of the history and development of the library and its relation to reading and general historical movements. Unfortunately, however, the excellent examples are somewhat hidden in the muddy excess of ephemera and poorly explained and connected trivia bits. Battles shows promise in so many places, but just as a lighthearted search for his own book in a modern library turns into a self-glorifying meditation on his own importance (he assumes someone has checked it out and preposterously suggests it could be classified as either memoir or fiction, proving the antithesis of his point). Ultimately, this book is useful for those heavily invested in the topic who can suspend the critical eye and glean as much information as possible from the scattered stories herein, but fails as an all-encompassing or even particularly thesis-driven work of general-interest history.

Grade: B-

Book 30: Free for All

Free for All: Oddballs, Geeks, and Gangstas in the Public Library
Don Borchert

The jacket of this book promises that it will be a wild ride, a tell-all memoir of sorts that will hilariously and tenderly convey the perks and perils of working in an underfunded, often overcrowded public library. Unfortunately, though there are amusing and touching anecdotes spread throughout this book, the vast bulk of this volume consists of snide, self-serving remarks with remarkably little perception or tolerance from someone who works at a public institution in Los Angeles, one of our country's most diverse areas by any measure. For an author, Borchert seems to be unrepentingly and unforgivably ignorant of the effects of his language on the reader. This book is full of moment after moment that should be touching or funny, only to be ruined by an ill-timed non-sequitur or blatantly ignorant remark about a patron or colleague's culture or race. And, for the record, hijab is not the same as a burka. That said, there are a few excellent moments in this chronicle of life as a public servant (a noble title Borchert reiterates every chapter or so), most notably an almost insult-free love story between two mentally challenged adults that manages to be written with subtlety, grace, and affection. Likewise, most of the stories about beloved children's librarian Terri shine with admiration, commiseration, and humor.

While there are a few stories that manage appropriate pacing and language, such as an early chapter about drug dealers working out of the library's bathroom, Borchert misses far more comic opportunities than he succeeds in delivering and the book suffers for it. Borchert is an author of extremes: he is either entirely off the mark, delivering punch lines before adequate (or any) set-up, or he is trying to force what he must see as witty cynicism into his dour remarks, throwing in an ill-timed "fuck" here or there to seem hip but making himself seem all the more tragically un-so. In fact, I would hate to be a patron of Mr. Borchert's library, and not because of the trying customers he faces. He seems to be stone-faced and, in trying to make himself seem understanding and polite comes off instead as a self-serving, crotchety jackass with no respect for others, a remarkable task for a librarian. Borchert has no sense of overall plotting as his stories are loose, unconnected, and hastily composed with no sense of story throughout. We are introduced to a librarian, Lillian, somewhere in the middle with no explanation of who she is or where her previous title-bearer had gone, only to get the patchy backstory in the final anecdote. Likewise, the "afterword" is really just a closing chapter to the book: readers will look at this and wonder if it saw any professional editorial attention at all.

I'm all for creating a stir and I'm no censor, but it seems unlikely that and editor looking for a book with mass-market appeal would allow Borchert's racist and offensive material to go through unscathed, particularly when it is either flat-out wrong (hijab is NOT a burka!), misleading, and usually entirely irrelevant to the story at hand. Aside from its horrendous styling, however, Free for All does have its moments. Many of its stories are funny, owing no thanks to the author's delivery, and uncover a bit of the shroud of mystery that hangs over library associates. Though civil servants are not the highest creatures on the employment totem pole, as this book would have us believe, Borchert does give readers an idea of the kinds of small and large annoyances that haunt the average branch librarian. Ultimately, though, Borchert's contempt for others and general inability to craft an interesting story overwhelm the power of the material. There are only a handful of passable chapters in this book, and two truly great ones: a moving ode to love, mentioned above, and a realistic, caustic, and shockingly witty look at the futility of summer reading programs. Free for All boldly attempts to take readers on a journey through the stacks, but gets lost in a dark, dank corridor of bad writing and fails to capture interest, unlike so many books Borchert has passed to the readers of Los Angeles who, thank god, seem to put up with him.

Grade: C-