So many books. So little time.
In a city as active, as full of fascinating places as London, can one say that the place most worth visiting is a library? sitting inside a building, not out wandering the narrow alleys, riding the London Eye, visiting museums, reading commemorative plaques on walls and doorways, or peeking into homes of famous authors, scientists, thinkers?
Inside, in a room so quiet the only sound is the footfall of people entering or leaving, and the rustle of bags as readers reach for the chargers, notebooks, pencils and all the other minutiae needed for the day’s work. If there is any conversation it is a silent communion between the reader and the thoughts contained in the book being read. The writing instrument is a pencil. One is not allowed a pen in the reading rooms. Of course the true reason for that is logical. When you’re absorbed in the task of reading and writing you may accidentally write in the book you are reading, not the notebook besides. I’d like to think though, that the quietness of a pencil as it glides across the page also has something to do with it.
In this silence the mind roams free. Down the pathways of the past, to the stairways to the stars.The world is yours to create. And the holdings of the library urge you on. What a treasure house. Printed books so old that the paper has turned brittle, you are scared to handle it. Books so rare they are under special security measures. The accumulated knowledge of mankind gathered here under one roof.
Libraries are knowledge repositories. Respect them. Give them the silence they ask for and something wonderful happens. They start to speak to you, their books filling your silence with stories that span all times, topics, genres: tales of love and hate, war and peace, treachery and togetherness.
What more does a writer want?