The Silence of a Library

There are different kinds of silences in the world. The silence of nightfall, the air cool and expanding around you; the silence of a classroom when the teacher waits for a student to raise their hand; the silence at a funeral when the family is paying their respects.

The silence of a library is a warmer kind of silence, one that wraps you up and holds you close and entices you to come farther in. The entire building smells of paper—there’s the fresh scent of the more recently published novels, the used, woody smell of the classics, the plastic hint of magazines. The carpet deafens your footsteps; noise is reduced to the rustling of paper and books being placed on shelves.

Sunlight peaks in through the windows, even on those frigid winter days, for the sole purpose of bringing light to thousands of stories. There’s whispered conversation coming from one end of the building, but it’s just the receptionist, and it calms rather than irritates you.

You could wander the isles for hours, your fingertips tracing the spines of the books, head tilted slightly to read the titles. Time slows down for you. Your pace slackens and you take longer to appreciate the things you can see and hear and touch. The weight of a book in your hands, the crinkle of the pages between your fingers. Black words dance across white paper and conjure up images that somehow feel more tangible than the shelves in front of you.

Yes, this is one you want to take home with you.

At the front desk, you pass your books to one of the librarians. She peers over her glasses and taps away at her keyboard. You smile and thank her before you leave.

And then you step back into the real world, and a car blares its horn as it races past you. People are busier, faster, brushing quickly past you with clear destinations in mind. You glance down at your selection of books and hold them tightly to your chest.

If you open one and start to read, maybe it will transport you back to the safety of the library.