To the Reader

Widener Library reading room, once upon a time

When I was in grad school, my advisor Sacvan Bercovitch explained the then-rise of “theory” in US literary studies this way: you work with what’s at hand. And should you find yourself teaching at a small college somewhere far from a large research library – as so many of his academic generation did, in wake of the expansion of higher education across the country in the 1960s and 70s - it makes sense to work with as few texts as possible. “Deconstruction,” with its emphasis on close readings of classics, could be practiced effectively at a distance from traditional centers of learning. For “theory,” most all the materials you needed could be kept on a shelf in your home.

He told me this in part, I think, to get me to make use of the massive archive I had access to at the time: Harvard Library is the largest research library in the country, and my ID got me into the stacks themselves to wander among its holdings. Widener Library, the jewel of the system, is dizzying inside – a thrill I never tired of, even after I tired of trying to pursue an academic career.

And so over the years, finding myself still living within walking distance of Widener Library, I continued to make use of it by paying for alumni access, at least when I wasn’t on the road. Not that I’ve launched huge research projects. But I was able to take for granted that most any text was within reach – an enormous privilege.

The stacks, manufactured by Snead & Co Iron Works of Jersey City, are part of the structure of Widener Library, supporting not only books but floors

Now? Maybe not so much. At least that seems to be how the university itself has started to feel. After the total closure of Harvard Library due to the COVID pandemic, and an extended closure to all but current faculty and students as it slowly worked its way back, I was finally allowed to renew my alumni card. But something had changed.

“I don’t have to pay anything?” I asked at the familiar privileges desk, sure that either I or they had misunderstood the situation. “But I want to borrow books,” I said. “Take them home,” I emphasized.

“That’s fine,” they said. “As many as you like. Rules changed during the pandemic, but of course we were closed so no one knew. Access to alumni is now free.”

They handed me my card, and looked at me eagerly. It was then that I realized I hadn’t waited on the usual line to have this exchange. The privileges office was empty when I entered, and I was still the only applicant there. Were they looking at me so intently because this was now a rare encounter? I made my way out, and felt their eyes on my back. Godspeed, book reader! I thought I could hear them thinking. Go read books!

Widener Library card catalogue, 1915

I went straight to the circulation room, pleased to be back. The banks of computers for consulting the digital catalogue were all running screen savers. A single work-study student sat behind one of the half-dozen terminals installed for checking out materials, looking at their own laptop. I woke up a computer, found the call numbers for several titles I wanted, waved my new ID at an electronic pad and opened the door to the stacks.

Inside, it smelled the same as always – old paper, new possibilities. But there was no one else there. I walked and heard only my own footsteps on the marble floors. Many times I had found myself alone in far reaches of these stacks, in what were rather creepy moments – but that never happened by the main entrance to the circulation room.

Habit directed my feet to the usual subject areas. I ran my eyes down call numbers on the spines… and couldn’t find the one I had noted down. I did it again, more slowly, thinking I’d forgotten the system. Nothing. Bad luck. I moved on.

But the same thing happened at the next stop. And the next. And the next.

I returned to the circulation room empty handed, woke up a computer and doublechecked the catalogue. By each of the Widener location listings I was using there was a note that looked like a glitch: “0 item(s) in library or storage, 0 requests,” it said. The librarian on duty sighed when I asked him what that meant. He took the slip of paper with call numbers and clicked for a bit on his own terminal. “They’re all checked out,” he said. “And we no longer recall titles.” Recall - the immediate return of a book you were holding that someone else with library privileges requested - had always been a mainstay of the Harvard system. I could never leave on tour without returning all my library books, just in case. Fines for ignoring recall were serious, and the violation of the spirit of the place even worse.

“When are they due back?” I asked.

“These loans are for the semester,” he said. “And they renew automatically up to five times.”

“That’s two and half years,” I said. He looked sad. At least I hoped he did.  

Now I see why the ID was free, I thought. On my way home, I looked up the titles on Amazon and ordered one.

Are we all supposed to write theory now? Far from it. We’re working with what we have at hand – which isn’t a carefully chosen classic and a clutch of continental philosophy, it’s anything and everything online. Which means you get neither deconstruction (extended close reading) nor archival research (with requisite endnotes, bibliography, index) but… a substack?

I have no doubt that I am – as my brilliant advisor Sacvan Bercovitch explained to me all those years ago – writing to a form which suits my current material situation. And yours too, dear subscriber. Mon semblable, — mon frère!

Listening to: Souvenirs, by Emahoy Tsege Mariam Gebru

Cooking: Rice noodles