Dudley Library is where it all started for me. There is a statue of an Edwardian boy holding a book at the entrance and I remember walking in and thinking he was a lot taller than me. As a grown woman I now tower over the little marble boy. The children’s section has moved into the romance slash large print section with a beautiful castle mural surrounding it. In my small town squashed between
Wolverhampton and Brum, this was what I needed. A place to find the world and me through the medium of print. Wherever I go in life, through university and beyond the library has become a sacred space where I can find true quiet or flow as psychologists now call it. My worries fall away at the door. Even when I have had rambunctious toddlers clinging to my ankles the library provides a sympathetic space. They are now being heralded as community “warm banks” for those who are struggling in the cost of living crisis. They are not only warm and inviting but free.
There are many libraries to enjoy. Modern ones that smell of fresh plastic complete with the hum of computers or a library that screams history, smelling of wood that came from old ships that sailed the globe (think the Liberty’s department store in London). It’s all about the books at the end of the day of course. It is why I enjoy national collections at the British Library and the National Library of Wales. I have soft spot for the folios with burnt candles at the edges. Fingerprints from late-night treats smeared at the edges. How many bags has it ridden inside? How many bookshelves have literally sat and gathered dust on watching time unfurl?
In older tomes, the colours of the ink sit on the page in midnight blue and blinding magenta. Complete with Saints and apostles. Old archaic books are often found behind reinforced glass. Aquinas. Shakespeare. Pepys. Austen.Bronte. Written in gold along the top. They may as well scream “Not for public consumption”. Then there are people like me who stare behind the glass for hours. Taking in every print particle and ink blot.
Traces of ourselves are left in old books. The urge to create is as old as humanity itself. Did you know that the Bronte sisters wrote in squiggles in their notebooks when they were little to replicate the idea of writing a book? I only found out last week. The most marvellous of all is how we leave traces of ourselves everywhere. Especially in libraries. The library stamps are proof we have been there. They hold further proof of whether we are secret vagabonds who fell in love with a book and conveniently forgot to return it. Our library records contain the ten copies of The Babysitter Club that you devoured in one summer. The books that explored relationships and desires we didn’t yet have a name for. The revision books are plundered and memorised by rote for tests. The books of sad funeral poetry are popular loans. Elegies to lovers and love hearts are pencilled in the corner with your crush’s initials. The library has been a stage for many romances both on paper and in real life. The most magical relationship is the one I have with the written word. It serves my soul. The poet Charles Causley once said that if he didn’t write poetry he would explode. If I didn’t have a local library I would now be me today. So thank you Dudley Library. I would not be me.