The library is an ancient human institution, an extension in brick and mortar of the brain, an expansion across time and space of the human cerebrum.

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The library is a vain attempt to capture what we know when what we know is always in flux and our ways of knowing have been challenged repeatedly and variously.

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The library is an elitist institution, based on the premise that the only knowledge worth having is the abstract knowledge that will allow for capture. It is not interested in non-abstractable knowledge. 

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The library is a dream space, a fevered dream space, a Borgesian dream of infinity. Any library with more than 40,000 books will defeat the longest human life, even if you read a book a day. This library has more than 40,000 books. 

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The library is a space for imagination, for daydream, for invention, for research, for investigation. The library is more than the sum of its parts.

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If you need to look for what it means to be human, look no further than the nearest library.  If you need to look for what it means to be inhuman, look no further than the man who burns a book.

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Choose your definition.

Even as you choose, know this. That edifice that looks so imposing, those rows of books that look so welcoming, they are as susceptible to the passage of time as you are. Time ravages books just as much as silverfish, mildew, and blades wielded in secret and in silence.

The book has many enemies.

So have libraries.

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But the worst enemy of all is the sound of receding footsteps, as people walk away from libraries. Tell me, when did you last go to the library? 

Introduction by Jerry Pinto

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