Seeking Sanctuary in the Past
"I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library." -Jorge Luis Borges
It is a cold, almost bitter morning. I’ve been up since 5:30 and just finished my breakfast while I graded exams on Thayer. My Texas roots are starting to show as I mutter to myself that it cruel for March to be this cold. It is quiet on campus – the first classes have just begun for the day – and virtually no one walks through the quad. I turn to my left, and walk almost to the end of the quad along George Street. Here stands John Carter Brown Library. I must first admit that I love books. Reading is a multi-sensory experience involving not only sight, but touch and smell as well. (And before this starts sounding all-too clichéd, I should also mention that I was an English major in college). Rare and antique books are even better because they come with their own past histories. Although come to this library for research purposes, I love to look at the idiosyncrasies of the books I read there. Often there is an inscription to a loved one, a fellow scholar, or even notes by the original reader. I find myself wondering who has used these books, why they had them and how they got here, to Providence, Rhode Island. With these ideas brewing in my mind, I approach the library. From the exterior, the library has a stately presence, built in the classical style that so many libraries of its kind have adopted. And, also like other libraries, the building itself speaks to its passers-by with monumental inscriptions. These sorts of expressions do not normally move me—they seem to be overused and almost requite for the building type. But for some reason, perhaps because I distinctly remember it the day I visited Brown as a prospective student, I have always liked the inscription on the John Carter Brown Library. It reads: “Speak to the Past and it shall teach thee.” Every time I visit this library, I feel touched, even moved, by the past—and as such, it is this place’s ability to allow me to seek sanctuary in the past that renders it, if only for a moment, sacred space. As I now enter the library through its vast wooden doors, I feel my feel crossing over the cold marble to the soft, red carpet and wooden interior of the space, as though the threshold of this sanctuary is physically marked. The world outside suddenly seems distant—both temporarily and physically. After I lock up my belongings, I sit at a long wooden table punctuated by green lamps. As I sit and wait for the books I requested to be brought to me by the staff, I look at the large tapestry on the wall in front of me. My eyes then shift to the walls filled with large folios branded with gold typeface. My book finally arrives—a compendium of images of the Virgin Mary--, and I begin the ritual processes of investigating a rare book—placing it on foam supports, carefully lifting each page separately, securing the binding. I find what I am looking for a record it on my computer and ask to take a photograph of the image. While I do need the photograph of this image for my research, I also want to be able to record this process. My work is done, but I stay a little longer to look at the books on the shelves, read the label on the tapestry that first intrigued me, and simply, to dwell in this place a little longer. But I must go, so I gather my belongings and cross over the threshold of the library once more back onto the quad. Class has now been released and there is a noticeable difference in this space. I feel as though I am in sort of in a liminal space of my own—halfway in the past, halfway in the present. As I walk to my department, I stop short to see the twig sculpture on the front green in the process of being destroyed. It strikes me as somehow significant, as though my visit to a sanctuary of mine was being juxtaposed to the destruction of (perhaps) a sanctuary for another. I take a photograph and walk on. The present has encroached on the past, and I think I am late.
After writing this reflection, I did want to mention why I believe the John Carter Brown Library, or at least my relationship to it, constitutes a sanctuary. While I believe that the most basic definition of a sanctuary encompasses some aspect of the religious, I also believe that a sanctuary can be extended to include safe and/or protected spaces. (Yet now I am wondering about the difference between a sanctuary and a refuge – are these words interchangeable?). A library is a protective space for books, and by extension, a means of protecting the past. My experience in this space also enacted several ritual practices that would seem consistent with behavior within a sanctuary. I crossed through a physical barrier, was stripped of any belongings that might defile the “holy” objects inside, the objects were stored in a separate, limited-access chamber, and my behavior with these objects demanded reverence. This being said, I don’t want to manipulate this experience into a sort of checklist of “a sanctuary,” (a la Renfrew) because I am still uncomfortable with defining too many things “sacred” spaces and characterizing too many actions “ritual.” Last, this exercise made me think of Lowenthal’s article on the past/nostalgia as sacred space. Can the past be a sanctuary in itself? That is, does a sanctuary have to be an architectural reality or can it be a site of memory?
Last, my apologizes to the archaeologists – I know there are other ways of getting at the past without going to the library…
Posted at Mar 18/2008 12:01AM:
Heidi: I would also add that most members of the Brown community are uncertain about their relationship to the JCB. Most students walk by it every day without knowing its function on campus, whether they are allowed to enter, and assume that it is off limits to them for one reason or another. This sense of privileged access seems to simultaneously heighten the experience of someone who enters the library and feels comfortable and familiar with its rituals, while producing ambivalence in members of the Brown community who are less prepared / more hesitant. Obviously we have similar ideas about sanctuary!
Posted at Mar 18/2008 10:18AM:
Keffie: To follow from what Heidi said, this brings up the quesiton of access or restriction. You do have access to this space and the objects in it, but the process by which you are able to engage with them are highly restricted and regimented. Does this regulation make the space feel more sacred? Do you have the same feeling of connection to the past when you go to the Rock (HA!), which arguably provides you with the same access to the past through text but through a very different mediation of that engagement.
Claudia: Following on Keffie's question of access and restriction, I wonder whether the code of etiquette or prescribed way of acting adds some level of communal ritual performance. I am thinking particularly of the enforced silence of libraries. In a way, the silence connects all the visitors, allowing the readers to share in an experience without any verbal expression. Is the ritual that takes place in a library more based on action and performance than on auditory cues?
Carissa: While reading your piece, one question that I had is, why don't I interact more with this place? The reason why I don't engage with this place on a deeper level, is because I do not use. It does not mean that I am not intriqued every time I walk by it. In a way I am intimidated. The JCBL can be considered a santuary for books, however, it does not function like a "normal" library. It is not open to all, but only a few selected individuals. In many ways, I feel restricted as a Brown student. I have not been instructed as to how to act in this place. It is my lack of ritual knowlege that prevents me from going inside.
