Bitter cold and blowy it was in and around Harvard Yard yesterday evening. We'd been chivvied out of Memorial Hall (private function) and were relieved to find shelter in the rare books library. I was with Scandinavians who braved the ache-bone gusts lightheartedly, but even they were delighted to be in the lobby of this library with its locked glass-fronted cupboards all around the walls displaying editions of the works of different poets--Donne, Milton, Coleridge...Bright, it was inside, and warm, and the hefty guy with ponytail and a mustache with soul patch who manned the desk, someone I've greeted on many previous tours, was ready to get up and talk.
No, the Lowell room at the top of the spiral stairs was closed; 5 pm is the usual time. Yes, there are treasures galore in the library's collections ranging from ancient Egyptian papyri to draft sketches of the costumes of soldiers in Star Wars. No, this is not the only library of the institution strangers can enter and use, but it is the easiest. Yes, there are superb holdings of Keats and Dickinson. No, the gallery was closed, but it would be open soon with an exhibition on an astronomical theme. Yes, there are tours of the building but, no, not in the late afternoon (when I might be free).
We, glowing red-faced, he, relaxed and garrulous, clearly proud of this building, its collection, its mission. Some women came downstairs perhaps from research labors, fumbled to open their bags for inspection, and headed out into the quiet night.
The gatekeeper's job is not glamorous. You read, perhaps write, check email, gaze at the ceiling or the door, answer questions, tell people firmly that no photography is allowed, and so perform a humble but necessary service. But when you spoke to us, pointing out this, gesturing to that, the place took on a grandeur (in addition to its bright warmth) that made it somehow wonderful, and you privileged to watch over it. Perhaps the words of Milton also, in some sense, apply: 'They also serve who only stand and wait.'
Oh, the night has its it own gloriousness, I thought, as I walked home from the bus, lifting my eyes to gaze on the great white orb of the moon beaming imperturbably down on such as me. Combined with the cold, it evoked in me a sense of immensities of majestic indifference. But you, guardian of the books, with your evident pride pointed us to another expansive but human world.
Only glass doors, easily swung, separated the two.
No, the Lowell room at the top of the spiral stairs was closed; 5 pm is the usual time. Yes, there are treasures galore in the library's collections ranging from ancient Egyptian papyri to draft sketches of the costumes of soldiers in Star Wars. No, this is not the only library of the institution strangers can enter and use, but it is the easiest. Yes, there are superb holdings of Keats and Dickinson. No, the gallery was closed, but it would be open soon with an exhibition on an astronomical theme. Yes, there are tours of the building but, no, not in the late afternoon (when I might be free).
We, glowing red-faced, he, relaxed and garrulous, clearly proud of this building, its collection, its mission. Some women came downstairs perhaps from research labors, fumbled to open their bags for inspection, and headed out into the quiet night.
The gatekeeper's job is not glamorous. You read, perhaps write, check email, gaze at the ceiling or the door, answer questions, tell people firmly that no photography is allowed, and so perform a humble but necessary service. But when you spoke to us, pointing out this, gesturing to that, the place took on a grandeur (in addition to its bright warmth) that made it somehow wonderful, and you privileged to watch over it. Perhaps the words of Milton also, in some sense, apply: 'They also serve who only stand and wait.'
Oh, the night has its it own gloriousness, I thought, as I walked home from the bus, lifting my eyes to gaze on the great white orb of the moon beaming imperturbably down on such as me. Combined with the cold, it evoked in me a sense of immensities of majestic indifference. But you, guardian of the books, with your evident pride pointed us to another expansive but human world.
Only glass doors, easily swung, separated the two.
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