If someone tried to pitch the idea for the public library in America today, it would get laughed out of the House. Copyright lawyers alone would have a conniption at the idea of giving away so much content for free, let alone all of the other infrastructural and fiscal complaints that would undoubtedly impede on the creation of such a publicly accessible and low-barrier space. We are very lucky that our ancestors established such an impactful and grounding institution for us to enjoy now.
Last week, the Cincinnati Public Library reopened the Downtown branch, which had been undergoing a years-long renovation. This city has one of the most intricate and lovely networks of communal branch libraries; I live within walking distance of three branches and have gotten to visit any number of neighborhood book repositories throughout the city. But returning to the central hub of the library network this week, I was reminded of the sheer immensity of the enterprise of creating such a system of learning. As I perused the shelves, I was like a kid in a candy store, trying to get my hands on as many volumes as possible, as if there was any hope at all that I would be able to consume even half of what I grabbed.
The Judaic section alone was noteworthy. Sure, Cincinnati is a historically impactful epicenter of Jewish history, but this did little to minimize my delighted surprise when I found an entire section of shelves dedicated to the writings of our people. There were titles from hundreds of years ago right alongside books published this summer, all living side-by-side in harmony. The local branches are lucky to get a few titles sprinkled in, but this was an entirely new experience in a public space.
Obviously, my Millennial identity is showing a little bit. The miracle that is the library is less foreign to those who have spent a larger percentage of their lives, during which this was THE major way of engaging with knowledge and wisdom.
Living in a digital-first world, it is often easy to forget the immensity of the breadth of human creativity and ingenuity that we have created over the past three centuries. We are lulled into a false sense of ownership when every book every written can fit in our pocket in the form of a cell phone. To see the square footage required to house even a percentage of those texts in our physical world is to be reminded of our relatively small place in the larger context of humanity.
There is a story in the Talmud of Honi the Circle-Maker; one day, he was walking down a country road and saw a man planting a carob tree. He inquired, “How long will it take the tree to bear fruit?” The reply: about 70 years. Honi was astonished; this man would almost certainly not live long enough to enjoy any of the fruit from his hard work.
Suddenly, Honi became very tired and lay down to take a nap. What seemed like a moment later, he woke up and discovered that the tree was massive and full of delicious-looking fruit. Next to the tree stood another man, looking a great deal like the first. When Honi asked him if he had planted the tree, the man was startled and said, “No, my grandfather planted this tree so that I would have fruit to eat.”
We are so used to living in a culture with instant gratification. But the presence of libraries and their vastness remind us that we are not only planting seeds for our own benefit but also to offer something to those who come after us.
We might never, WILL never be able to enjoy the full depths of what a library has to offer us; life is simply too short to read everything there is to read or see everything there is to see. But by creating institutions to preserve and encourage wisdom and community, we are continuing to carry the torch of tradition that has sustained our people and all people throughout the centuries.
Austin Zoot is the Rabbi Educator at the Valley Temple in Wyoming, Ohio.
Loved the article with its homage to the old and the new in our amazing library. I took all the grandkids there last week!!