55/100: On Witchcraft
This vignette is one in a series of 100 on the libraries of New York City
The beauty of this new posting schedule means I can be more flexible with my library time, so I get to Jefferson Market late today, close to closing time. The building has a clock tower, and as I approach the library’s steps, four bell chimes sound out to mark the hour. Sixth Avenue has no shortage of noises: horns honking, sirens blaring, people shouting. Somehow though, the bells add measure and rhythm to the cacophony of sounds, grounding the volume rather than heightening it.
Once inside, it’s back to the upstairs reading room. It being so late in the day there are limited seating options: there are only two tables in the main room, plus a few armchairs, and all of these are occupied, so my best bet is to sidle off into the annex.
In here the seating is not unlike that at McDonalds; designed to be uncomfortable to ensure nobody lingers too long. There are a couple of low, carved wooden benches and over by the window, a bar / counter where a middle-aged man rests his elbows as he pores over a volume. Bookshelves everywhere partition the room into a dozen little rooms, each one showcasing a random assortment of literature counting gardening, photography, entrepreneurship and young adult fiction.
When I was here yesterday, sitting at the long table in the main room, the woman sitting across from me emerged from the annex with a book entitled:
How To Not
Rite Bad (strikethrough)
Wright Bad (strikethrough)
Write Bad
At the window counter, beside the middle-aged man, is a massive dictionary. It’s bolted to the table, though it probably doesn’t need to be — it must weigh about 60 pounds. Whoever last used it had it open on the letter c; the first word at the top of the left page is colligative: relating to the binding together of molecules. Appropriate.
The man at the window counter abandons his post, leaving behind a small stack of books, one of them being the one he was so utterly immersed in:
I really hope he was reading the witchcraft one. It makes no difference to me but I like the idea that this man, who looks oh-so-serious and buttoned-up, is into potions and divination and defense against the dark arts.
One of my favorite things about this project has been the steady stream of unexpected occurrences it offers. When we confront novel stimuli, our brains get a hit of dopamine, but most of us (including me) are too wrapped up in our own routines and regularity to notice and therefore access these freebie pick-me-ups.
The world being the nefarious state of affairs that it is, we’re all trying to figure out ways to navigate through it, and one popular way of doing so is by creating bubbled environments where we can monitor what comes in and out. The strategy has its merits (who wants to pay attention to all the bad going on?) but it can lead to a pretty limited — and dull — life. Taking in what happens around us — good and bad — takes a lot out of us, but it can give a lot back too.
Having spent the last few months attempting to get to know strangers, the most delightful moments of this exercise are the unforeseen ones: when a young woman started dancing in the History Department, when a Ukrainian refugee invited a librarian for dinner, when a middle-aged man (maybe) read a book on witchcraft.
When you take words out of the equation, reading people becomes more nuanced. We’re image obsessed, and very careful about what image we put out. With some exceptions, most of us choose not to call attention to ourselves in real life: we wear muted colors, we use headphones, we avoid eye contact. The library is one of the few places left to observe humans being humans, by way of how they choose to spend their time.
The middle-aged man at the window may not have been reading about witchcraft, but somebody was. And that — that the library continues to cater to all kinds of communities with idiosyncratic interests that they can learn about and lose themselves in — is magic.
Thanks for reading!