YOU WOULDN̢۪T KNOW IT BY LOOKING AT MY overgrown, pudgy exterior, but I̢۪m an adventurer. I̢۪m an explorer, and one in the very best tradition of elephant rifles and safari caps. Just one of the many things I learned at the local library.
It̢۪s too late for the exiting seniors, but Fresno State students will reap similar benefits from the construction of our future Henry Madden Library. Once again, our library will have its wild, untamed stacks, fresh for conquest.
My first conquest at Fresno State, I picked up the odd Philip Dick short story collection, a Vonnegut or two.
As I left, I grabbed, without looking at it, another random book off the shelves and resolved to read it. That was my first exposure to Bukowski; it was golden.
I first developed my library addiction at a small town two-and-a-half hours toward the coast. My dad and mom wouldn̢۪t let me check out 50 picture books or vaguely educational videos at a time on their card. They told me that if I wanted to do that, I had to get my own card, and that to get my own card I had to learn how to sign my name. The library had no such rule; my parents did.
Presented with that ultimatum, I had one option. I learned how to sign my name, and so I got my own card.
Rather than African jungles or Himalayan slopes, I continued exploring the library̢۪s chairs and tables and stacks and shelves every Saturday between the ages of too-early-in-my-life-to-remember and I-moved-to-a-different-city.
Sometimes, when I felt especially energetic on my bologna and ketchup sandwiches, I conned my mom or grandma to taking me there even some days between Saturdays, and sometimes even in addition to our weekly visits.
As an explorer, I constantly explored the stacks for new conquests. It was more dangerous than I had thought, too. I read “The Wizard of Oz,â€Â on a 7-year-old’s whim, and then devoured the rest of the series.
The Hardy Boys, Animorphs and the Boxcar Children suffered the same fate.
I still bear the repetitive, formulaic scars, and still I grew stronger from the encounter. I have no such chance to raid our library on a casual whim. We need to know what we̢۪re looking for, first.
In the absence of a library, my weekends are now spent at the bookstores. I̢۪ll spend hours there, just reading. It isn̢۪t the same, though, as it was at our library before the construction started. I̢۪m distracted by colorful, glossy displays and mind candy.
I̢۪d make the attempt to do some serious reading at Barnes and Noble, but I always ended up with a stack of comic books, written or illustrated by Alan Moore or Frank Miller or Neil Gaiman.
My McCollough histories lay unread, too dry and fussy for my recreational tastes.
In a public library, there aren̢۪t many comic books to distract me. The experience at a public library is nowhere near as rewarding as at a real college library. Public libraries are kind to the person who knows what he wants, but less so to the intrepid explorers who throw caution to the wind, grabbing that random Bukowski.
Officially, there’s plenty of Proust and Austen and Woolf. In practice, the casual browser tends to wade through quicksands of Piers Anthony and machete whole bushes of Nicolas Sparks before he gets to the real treasures, which, at best, tend to include a battered copy of “Ender’s Game,â€Â or maybe that uncut version of “The Stand.â€Â
Fresno State will be transformed for the better when the Henry Madden Library opens, and we can prowl the stacks again.
Public libraries, catering to the whims of the saccharine literary appetites of its patrons, are no replacement, and bookstores are even worse.
Fresno State needs that concrete-and-steel-encased jungle, and I relish the chance to tame it. I won̢۪t even have to look at the shelf as I grab that first book, and all will be as it should be.