A Mystery Writer's Night Before Christmas...and Sixth Wedding Anniversary

 

Jeff—Saturday 

Whenever I think of Christmas, I think of traditions...such as wishing my bride Happy Anniversary three days later.  Thank you, Santa, for reminding me. :)

To all of you from the many different corners of our world who so kindly follow us on MIE, the very best of the Holiday Season, no matter how you may choose to celebrate the time.  As I’m blessed to be part of the MIE family I have a little tradition I like to sneak in here during the holiday season.  It’s something I composed for my Christmas Eve post a few years back and whether or not you’d like seeing it again, this is five nights before Christmas and it's become a tradition so we’re stuck with it…though updated to include new members of our MIE family. I take great pleasure in brutally fracturing the classic poem, “Twas the Night Before Christmas” by Clement Clarke Moore or Henry Livingston—history is still not sure who wrote it, so apologies to both. 

Livingston

Moore

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a laptop was stirring, nor even a mouse.
The reviews were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that new readers would soon find them there.

The critics were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of best-seller danced in my head.
And DorothyL in her wimsey, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for the hiatus nap.

When out on the Net there arose such a chatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the keyboard I flew like a flash,
Tore open the browser and dove in with a splash.

The glow on the screen cast like new-fallen snow,
A lustre of brilliance onto writing so-so.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But the sight of a blog with ten writers so dear.

With a little bold driver so quick with a thrill,
I knew in a moment he hailed from Brazil.
More rapid than eBooks their creations they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now, Kubu! now, Su Lin! now, Perveen and Darko!
On, Vera! On, Kaldis! on, Corravan and Glock!
To the top of the Times! to the top of them all!
Now slash away Christine, slash away pall!”

As wry thoughts, that before the final deadline fly,
When they meet with an obstacle soar to the sky.
So off to their blog-posts these non-courtiers flew,
With a sleigh full of ploys, and opinions not few.

And then, in a twinkling, I saw not from aloof,
The prancing and gnawing of hard comments and spoof
Taking aim at some points so to bring them to ground,
Brought on by hard thinkers of Southern Cross sound.

The writers were dressed from each head to each foot

In bold clothes that were tarnished with gashes well put.
A bundle of ARCs each had flung on its back,
They looked like kind peddlers bringing books to a rack.

Their eyes—how they twinkled! Their dimples how merry!
Their cheeks like Jeff Bezos’s, their noses like sherry!
One’s droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
‘Til his bottle of bourbon fell out on the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
Threw up smoke of the kind to fire scotch from the heath.
He had a broad face that would fill up the telly,
And as he reached for his bottle mumbled, “Just jelly.”

Neither chubby nor plump, more like jolly and svelte,
I laughed when I saw him, ‘til his stare I felt.
But a wink of his eye and no twist to my head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

They all spoke not a word, but went straight to their work,
And filled all the bookshelves, then turned with a jerk.
And crossing their fingers aside of their noses,

And giving great nods, passed around the Four Roses.

They kept all at play ‘til the ladies gave whistle,
Then each turned as one to read an epistle.  
And I heard them exclaim, ‘ere my charger lost might,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-fright!”

And, of course,“Kala Kristougenna.”

 

 —Andreas Kaldis

'Tis the season of ....the Christmas Earworm

I saw a great article about what makes a good Christmas song.

I am aware what makes a good Eurovision hit -  start and end with chorus and have words in there that are understood all over the countries in receipt of the European Transmission signal. In the 1960’s that was about six countries in Europe, but now, it’s the entire world.

The greatest Eurovision songs by sales are Volare, Dancing Queen and err… Save all Your Kisses For Me.

My friend and I have often dreamed of penning the ideal Eurosong- it would called Hey Joe, Where’s my taxi.

Anyhoos as we say in this part of the European Transmission Signal Receipt zone.

We are well in the Christmas Music Time zone, and arguments rage over what’s best, what’s worse  but that can easily change with introduction of alcohol,  length of time standing in the queue etc.

The top ten of the worse in the UK are 

                                      

Wonderful Christmastime – Paul McCartney Cheesy. dated and lacking in sophistication. Constantly in the most disliked top ten. But also number 6 on the best list! Did McCartney ever pen a bad ditty. Scrambled egg, how I love to eat my Scrambled egg…. Was how Yesterday started life.

Do They Know It’s Christmas? – Band Aid. Does it now have questionable lyrics: the song has been called patronizing and culturally tone-deaf. It’s also number 4 on the favourite list. This song has raised £250 million dollars in its various incarnations since the chimes of doom first clanged. 

                                       

Mistletoe – Justin Bieber. One of the worst. And appears on a lot of lists of the worst! I’ve never heard it. I think I might be one of the lucky ones.

Last Christmas – Wham! Overplayed so it makes the worst list. It’s also number 3 the favourite list. George Michael’s hair getting curly in the video because of the snow. The snowball fight. The festive dinner. The fact that they were all good pals in the video. The fact that George is no longer with us, and the day of his passing. Quite sad.

                                     

All I Want for Christmas Is You – Mariah Carey, also number 2 on the most favourite list. I think the song has a lot going on. 

Fairytale of New York – The Pogues feat. Kirsty MacColl. Appears in the top slot as the most favourite also. Both Shane and Kirsty have passed now.  A difficult song to drum says my other half.

Naughty Christmas (Goblin in the Office) – Fat Les. Can’t comment as I’ve never heard it and ditto with Mr Blobby’s Christmas Song – Mr Blobby but I can imagine the horror of both.

                                           

Slade with  Merry Xmas Everybody is at number 5 of the best songs and doesn’t appear on the worst list because  everybody loves it. Noddy Holder has always said that he had no idea he was writing his pension. What was it? Christmas 73 or 74?  I got the 7 “ single for my Christmas that year. My first ever record. I still have it.  

Next of the best, not appearing on the worst list is Wizzard with  I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday. You can hear that Phil Spector influence all over it. And it’s quite easy to drum. It gets everybody up on the dance floor.  

                                        

Number 8 on the best list - Happy Xmas (War Is Over ) By  John Lennon & Yoko Ono. A grand sentiment.  

Number 9 is  Step Into Christmas by Mr  Elton John. It sounds very unelton.  

                                        

And number 10 is  Driving Home for Christmas – Chris Rea. What a great feel good song. Really conveys the frustration of being caught in a traffic jam while the artic roll slowly defrosts in the back of the car.  

I do have the LP of the Phil Spector’s Christmas Album. Santa Claus is coming to town and all that. Are we still allowed to like Phil Spector? The wall of sound.

My favourite Christmas song…. I think it would have to be….. Greg Lake. I believe in Father Christmas.  Not Gregg Lake, I think that’s place!  

                                    

And I will leave you to your felicitations. And the earworm of the instrumental middle third of Greg Lake's masterpiece. Sorry about that. If you really want to---here's the link.

https://www.bing.com/videos/riverview/relatedvideo?q=greg+lake+i+believe+in+father+christmas&&mid=A28A338C0460B8643855A28A338C0460B8643855&FORM=VAMGZC

The Past, Present, and Future of African Crime Writing

Michael - Alternate Thursdays 

Every year in December Catalyst Press hosts Reading Africa Week. The focus is on literature of all types written by Africans and usually about Africa. It includes events, live panels, and discussions online. For this year's event, I was asked to meet (electronically) with four crime writers from Africa to discuss what makes African crime writing different and special. The discussion took the form of a number of questions to kick it off followed by the responses from the authors and possible comments from them and other questions. Although it sounds a bit cumbersome, it actually worked really well and we came up with a very interesting discussion.

The roundtable, titled The Past, Present, and Future of African Crime Writing, was published on CrimeReads, and you can read the whole of it HERE.

To whet your appetite, here's an introduction to the authors and a sample question to each of them:

Mike Nicol is one of South Africa's most successful crime writers, and one of my favourite crime writers anywhere. Falls the Shadow, the first book in a new series featuring a female cop who cops the cops is out in February. I was fortunate to receive an advance copy from Catalyst Press and I loved it - one of my best crime fiction reads of the year.

Mike, your books all involve local issues that are real and serious. It’s been suggested that African crime fiction is about social justice issues. Would you agree with that? How does it affect readers abroad?

Mike Nicol: Absolutely agree with that. Crime fiction has both a political and a historical dimension. This might make things challenging for readers elsewhere as South African crime fiction doesn’t plough the serial killers and drug lords furrows. Well, not often and only as part of larger stories. One of my concerns is that because of the social justice issues, African crime fiction might not find a ready market elsewhere on the grounds that our societies are too complex and different for the Western readership.

Ciku Kimani-Mwaniki is a Kenyan journalist and author. Her latest book is NaiRobbery Cocktail, and I'm looking forward to reading it as soon as it's available here. 

Ciku, what brought you to writing a thriller?

Ciku Kimani-Mwaniki: My genre of choice is romance. Not your typical good-girl next door type. I write about love lives of the so-called society pariahs. Damaged people, if I may. When I decided to write Nairobbery Cocktail, the idea was to write about the love lives of criminals. I wanted to play with the idea of humanising them. What ended up happening was the book becoming more of a crime novel than a romance. I’m still surprised.

Iris Mwanza is a Zambian American author whose debut novel, The Lions’ Den, is a legal thriller based on a case where a fierce young, lawyer Grace Zulu is defending a queer teenager  charged with crimes against the order of nature (the Zambian law criminalizing same-sex relations). When Bessy disappears from police custody, Grace’s case becomes a larger quest for justice, and she must confront larger forces – the legal system, government, corruption, religion and the societal norms that allow and enable discrimination and human rights abuses. It was a stand-out debut, and I'm looking forward to more novels from her.

Iris, human nature is pretty much the same everywhere, but culture will affect character, behavior, aspirations, and motives. How central is this in your work? Do you feel constrained by social attitudes whether self-imposed or legal?

Iris Mwanza: I live in the US where I’m experiencing in real time what happens when legal protection, justice and social norms around equality, fairness and basic decency are under attack. It’s terrible and frightening to live through; however, I feel that the work of a writer is to explore the dark interiors of characters in ways that can explain and expose how these things happen. In my novel, the lead character Grace is someone with a strong moral compass and sense of justice who takes on corrupt people and systems, but I could also see making the same strong case for social justice through a lead character who was the opposite — immoral and depraved. For me authenticity is the key to unlocking a character and so censorship, especially self-censorship, is furthest from my mind. 

Leye Adenle is no stranger to Murder Is Everywhere, he used to be one of our bloggers until other time demands forced him to drop out. His Amaka thrillers set in Nigeria are all first rate with a powerful sense of place and social themes. In his latest book, Unfinished Business, Amaka is in London when one of the sex workers she tries to protect sends her a distress call from Lagos. The young lady has witnessed a high-profile double murder, and she has gone into hiding. Amaka must return to Lagos to rescue her before the assassins, their bosses, and the police find her friend.

Leye, how much does setting drive your stories? Could you imagine setting your books anywhere else?

Leye Adenle: Considering that I have set my stories in Lagos in Nigeria, on the moon, in various impossible dimensions, in Berlin, and lately in London, I would say that the setting and the story are, for me, sometimes inseparable but, with tiny tweaks, could be made to work anywhere on Earth. In the Amaka thriller series, I set out to write about violence against women, thieving corrupt politicians, and police brutality, but as I’m not American, I decided to set my work in Lagos.

I hope you're now convinced to take the time to enjoy the full discussion. It's right HERE on CrimeReads.

Happy Holidays everyone! See you next year.

Michael.

Nafplio Off-Season: a Time of Pondering and Wandering

 Sujata Massey

Last night, I dreamed I was in Nafplio.

In the dream, I was visiting the city in the middle of winter, yet it was warm enough for short sleeves. People were swimming in tranquil waters. Shop windows beckoned with jewelry, and I paused,not sure where to go. I was also aware that I was something of a shadow: a foreigner traveling alone. Nobody knew me; nobody would miss me if I vanished.

This isn’t hyperbole. I actually did have the dream. A few hours before I went to bed, I’d been sitting with Tony at our good friends’ Rani and Peter’s dining table. We’d talked about how I’d driven from Athens Airport to Nafplio, an old seaside town in the Peloponnese that has been called one of the most beautiful places in Greece. I very casually said I’d made the drive. I was downplaying what my dream later reminded me: that I had felt very alone.

I could have confessed that I’d been highly nervous about making the 170-kilometer drive by myself in a country where I’d only recently learned to decode the letters of the alphabet. Chiefly, I was worried about a breakdown, accident, or getting lost by myself. Would the Euro coins I had left over from Thessaloniki hold out for all the tolls I expected to pay on the 2-hour route?

It was my good fortune that the Greek highways were smooth as silk, although with my nerves I wound up taking 2 1/2 hours to get there. Apple maps were genius, even with unnamed roads. The worst part was at Athens Airport, when I sat down inside the tiny Kia automatic car I'd been allotted. I simply couldn't figure out how to start the engine. I sucked in my pride and 42 years of licensed driving experience and asked the Avis rental car employee to teach me the precise order of turning the car key and stepping on the accelerator--and no, it's not like in America. The other mystery he explained was the absence of P among the car's gears. Apparently, the way to put the car into a stationery mode was to put it in neutral and pull up the hand brake. Thank God I asked for assistance and didn't try to figure it out myself! 

I reached Nafplio without any adversity; although it took me half an hour to find parking in the busy free lot at the port and drag my wheeled suitcase to my bed and breakfast, which was located in an old Venetian townhouse on a narrow no-parking street in the Old Town. One of the reasons I wanted to be in Nafplio was because of the extensive preserved old town, a mix of medieval and 19^th century buildings that combine Ottoman and Venetian architecture.  But that grandeur sometimes has parking restrictions.

Nafplio (also known as Nafplion) has ancient roots going back to the days of Poseidon, who's said to have fathered a son, Nauplios, who is the town's namesake. The port became a city of interest during medieval times, and was variously occupied by Greeks, Ottomans, Byzantines and Venetians. 

The city has compact, yet impressive, neoclassical architecture and majestic forts and castles. All this and its good location for water trade led to its selection as the first free capital of modern Greece in 1828 (the capital’s location was changed to Athens in 1834). While a lot of Greece has suffered having old buildings lost to fires, earthquakes or modern development, historic preservation has been quite successful in Nafplio. Houses dating from the medieval period through the 1920s operate as charming small inns, restaurants, shops and museums. According to my millennial tour guide (who moved away briefly in his youth for the big lights), Nafplio has never had exciting nightlife, which means it appeals greatly to families and older tourists. The tourism is specifically driven by Greeks, many of whom drive  from Athens on the weekend for a sightseeing and dining escape. 

I’m a city dweller who unabashedly believes in the communal nature of urban places, and I am grateful to have an old house in an old neighborhood that includes a post office, library and a small supermarket. Still, the romantic in me has seen too many movies about small towns in Italy and France and England—and I have my own fantasies of the peaceful writing life in such a place, interspersed with jaunts to the market and conversations with longtime shop owners nearby. This you could have in Nafplio without question. Adding to the conviviality was that this city was not overrun with chain hotels. In the old town, most lodging appeared to be genuine pensiones—the historic Italian/French term given to hotels in Europe that tend toward being more boarding house or bed-and-breakfast. The kind of places with steep staircases, small rooms, and old furniture. And if you’re lucky—French doors that open onto a postage stamp balcony that show the historic neighborhood in its glory.

Hotel Adiani is operated by a local family who also run another pension-style hotel, Amymone, plus an elegant restaurant, Wild Duck, just across the way in a similar historic townhouse. The restaurant was full scale luxury: local produce and meat and cheese transformed into fusion dishes. My stay included breakfast that was prepared in the restaurant and also included specialty coffees made to order by a young man so versed in world news that upon hearing the name of my home city, he enquired about our tragedy, the 2024 Francis Scott Key Bridge collapse. 

During the trip, it was humbling for me to witness  how many people closely read the news of other countries. It also seemed that California was the state that people in the UK, France and Greece loved to imagine—and I'll take it as a compliment that people sometimes would incorrectly guess this was my home. Still, despite the allure of California, I only encountered one person—a server in an Edinburgh gastropub—who was hoping to travel to the U.S.. The uncertainty about the validity of tourist visas at US airports makes the reluctance quite understandable. 

Some countries in Europe are working assertively to attract non-working foreigners with solid pensions and bank accounts to emigrate. Greece is one of the places offering Golden Visas—long term residencies—in exchange for buying and rehabilitating properties for their own use or commercial development. I saw plenty of for sale signs in Thessaloniki, and during my spring visit to Syros; however, very few of the former residences and offices in the historic area of Nafplio appeared to be vacant. Instead, I saw  boutiques selling clothing, eyewear and jewelry; one gelato shop after another; and dozens of tavernas and cafes. Apparently, starting at Easter and through early October, the little town overflows with both Greek and foreign visitors. I had arrived during the last bustling weekend, when car parking was tight at the port; but once Monday came, I found I was often the only person roaming a particular block. A photographer's dream!

When you are alone, you can make your days as complicated or simple as you like. I set up a pleasant routine of having a superb breakfast downstairs, followed by a walk to get another coffee at a shop to take up to my room. Hotel Adiani had renovated its old rooms handsomely including with modern art painting on headboards and walls, and interesting textiles here and there. It was a glorious surprise to have a wooden writing desk with a good chair, as well as a small sofa. With such comfortable digs, I wrote more than I expected. I went out for lunch every day and often found the appetizer of meze or a salad was quite large and so filling that I couldn’t manage a regular entrée as well. I walked the food off in the afternoons by exploring the town’s famous landmarks like the hilltop Palamidi castle, approximately 900 steps above the town; the genteel Syntagma Square, and Arvinitia Beach, a sweet, semi-circular protected swimming place that was in use by a handful of visitors in early November. I had looked at the calendar and not believed it would be possible to swim in November. Therefore, I had no bathing suit, so I can’t say what the temperatures were, but my guess is the water wasn’t as warm as the sunshine. 

When nighttime fell, I was often in my room, looking out from the balcony at the sunset and the street life below. Usually I was too full from my lunch to want much, but I once ate by candelight at an outdoor table overlooking the port at Wild Duck. Another time I wandered into a bakery and picked out a small box of cookies to have with a hot cup of herb tea (it seemed like bakery browsing was very popular in the evening throughout Greece). I have to make a recommendation about Nafplio's oranges and tangerines. They had varying levels of sweetness and were delicious in salads, juice, or eaten as themselves. 

Dinnertime is when I most often missed being with Tony, who was 5000 miles away conducting a midday Zoom with his colleagues. It wasn't that I couldn't eat alone. All restaurants I visited welcomed me as a solo diner, some with quite kind and attentive service. To the Greeks, a solitary traveler is unusual; two of my walking tour guides in Thessaloniki and Nafplio confessed that they hadn’t ever traveled alone and weren’t sure that they would like it. 

I’ve traveled alone for many years; first as a journalist, and then as a young woman in Japan whose husband was oceans away on a navy ship.After we were reunited, I kept traveling alone for the sake of research for my novels. Therefore, this new step—spending half my fall trip in Europe alone, going exactly where I wanted, and eating only when I was hungry—didn’t seem on the outset to be that difficult. It with the widespread English spoken by younger Greeks, being understood was mostly possible. It was only when I reached France—the final week of the five-week journey—that my solo journey became a little more challenging. 

More on that later!

Down Time versus Down Moods

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

Down time and down moods look very similar from the outside--low productivity, high junk food intake--but feel very different and leave me in a very different place.

I’m currently in a down space—waiting for copy edits on Tembusu and finding it hard to fix on the next book. I have several ideas in the stable longing to be saddled up, but this is the first time in thirteen years I don’t have a contract and deadline hounding me... I'd been looking forward to this time, but instead of feeling gloriously free I'd been feeling kind of lost until I got myself back to my favourite self-indulgent transitional space: Crimson...

The Crimson restaurant that looks down into the Crimson Wetlands at the Mandai Bird Paradise. Yes, it's expensive with posh restaurant prices (I think a set meal is like $35--I had the a la carte laksa) and that's on top of the park entry of $22 for senior citizens.

But it's also become my special get away space because there's no time limit on sitting and you can sit there all day with a glass of wine (which they sell by the glass--I had sparkling water and two coffees) and there's air conditioning and clean toilets and after walking around in the heat getting up close to the birds it's very nice to sit down and watch them flying around at eye level!

This is one of my favourite parks because of the pink flamingos, scarlet ibises and roseate spoonbills. Not just for their lovely colours but for the way they spend most of their time picking their way through the water, digging into the muck for bugs--then suddenly take off into glorious swooping flights.

Kind of like how we spend so much of our time nit-picking over tells and plot points till suddenly something makes it all lift off.

That's how it kind of felt for me being there, once I gave myself permission to take time off just to recharge. Without permission, rest feels too close to laziness to relax into. With permission, it becomes maintenance.

And I strongly recommend to everyone who's made it this far into the year: give yourself permission to slow down, rest and feel where you are in your body and your space at the moment... which will give your body, mind and soul a chance to work out (consciously or not) your directions in the year to come.

This was my laksa lunch, by the way--quite delicious.

And these were the friends who left their tree and came as close as they could to inspect it through the glass window--

No, I didn't share. But then when I was walking around outside they didn't share their fruit with me either!

I haven't just been goofing off--I've taken care of quarterly chores like cleaning the gunk out of the turtle pond filter (too disgusting to photograph, but oddly satisfying to get really filthy mucking it all out!) but for me, nothing feels as good as taking some time out to sit with the birds.

Watching the predators show after--eagles, vultures and owls--I found myself wondering how long it would take them to render a body unrecognisable, and it felt so good to be thinking murderous thoughts again!

So--if you find yourself feeling down, disconnected or directionless, please don't worry. You might just be tired. Suddenly getting free time at the end of the year can be disorientating if you're used to being chained to a system and routines and deadlines. But it's also a chance to try flying--

Choose the downtime activity/ non-activity that restores you most and set aside the guilt for now.

Happy recharging everyone!

Support Your Local Library

Annamaria on Monday

This morning it snowed in NYC.  The first falling snow I've seen in sometime.  That's because I have been spending my winters in a place with a Mediterranean Climate: Italy -- Florence to be exact. In less than a week I will be on my way.  Though it's never easy for me to organize myself for 2 1/2 months away, this year I am particularly discombobulated. 

I spent most of the fall focused on getting a manuscript ready to send to my agent.  Then I went back to the first draft of Vera and Tolliver 5 and found scene by scene pouring out of wherever those stories come from. First drafts are the hardest, but for me also the most riveting aspect of writing fiction.

I am, therefore, rerunning a post from 10 years ago, on a topic very close to my heart. Here it is. It's about a gift i urge you to give.  

Annamaria on Monday

It's nearly Christmas.  I urge you to give a gift to everyone in your community.  One they can use freely, enjoy, find extraordinarily useful.  That will inform the ignorant, entertain the bored, help the unemployed find a job, and distract those in pain.   No shopping is involved here.  All you have to do is make a donation to your local library.

One of the lions--Patience and Fortitude--that grace the Main Branch of the New York Public Library

I realize that, unlike murder, free public libraries are not everywhere.  They are pretty much everywhere in the USofA.  If they exist where you live, you owe it to yourself to follow my advice and give to your local bastion and guardian of civilization.  Libraries are the most benign places on earth.  I have gotten to experience all of the top three.

The libraries of the world line up like this. One: The Library of Congress in Washington.  Two: The British Library in London.  Three: The New York Public Library, where I have the enormous privilege of calling myself a writer in residence.  Mine is the MOST user friendly.  And open and welcoming.  Not so much, numbers one and two.

At the Library of Congress, you have to apply if you want to read, show ID, make a case for yourself.  It is not onerous, but not totally open either.

Here is the drill if you want to research at The British Library.  First, you have to go on their website, which is dense with long paragraphs of information spread over many pages.  The information is arranged in the most arcane way: like books stored by the Dewey Decimal system--according to rules understood only by licensed librarians.  If you are really determined, you will be able to find and fill out the application form.  Once you have submitted a properly completed form, you will be directed to a list of acceptable forms of identification.  You will need to present two of them when you arrive at the library.  You will also be given your personal applicant ID number.

The British Library

On the day you arrive for the first time, you will be directed to a special room, where you enter your ID number in the computer system and then wait.  Eventually applicants will be called by that ID number to be interviewed.  A very friendly, in my case, person will ask you to explain what of their collection you want to see and why.  I have no idea of the criteria they use to judge your worthiness.  All I know is that I passed muster to read in their Africa and Asia Room.  They gave me a special British Library photo ID.

If you survive the above, you go to the cloak room in the basement, where you give up all your worldly possessions except for your computer, pencils (NO PENS), and your notebook.  You put those three things, and nothing else in a clear plastic bag.  You then can take the elevator to the reading room you have designated.  There a guard will check your ID and your clear plastic bag.  Then and only then you can read a book.

I don't resent this.  It is a privilege to be able to read British Library's books, and they have a right to require whatever they want of the people they allow in.

But nothing like this happens in the NYPL or in public libraries all over the the USA.  If you want to read a book, all you have to do is ask for it.  If you want to borrow a book to take home from one of the branch libraries, you have to have a card like this.  No photo, no approved forms of ID, no expiration date.

  

I consider free public libraries sacred.  They are my temples of free knowledge.  My places of worship.

I fell in love with the library as a very young child, when my brother and I called it "The Liberry."

My Brother and Me

The Paterson (NJ) Public Library saved my life. I would have grown up somehow if I could not have read its books as a child, but I would not have grown up to be me. Even before my brother and I learned to pronounce it, we loved to go. We went at least once a week in the summer. Our mother took us to our local branch, about a twenty minute walk from home, a simple storefront filled with hundreds of books and staffed by two of the nicest ladies ever. Mommy got books for herself and my brother and I chose from the children’s section. He had a weird taste for books about snakes, guns, and tanks—a bother since we were allowed only three books at a time. When I finished reading mine, I was stuck with his questionable selections until the next trip. As long as we were still in elementary school, the rules allowed us only children’s books, but since I was voracious, there was soon nothing left for children that I hadn’t read. So as a seventh grader, the librarians allowed me to select biographies (but never fiction) from the adult section.

Paterson Public Library

During the summer, between grades seven and eight, I took to going with my friend Dolores to the main branch, a bus ride away. It was much grander than our local storefront. Here is a picture of it—a building designed by Henry Bacon, who subsequently designed the Lincoln Memorial. It’s now on the National Register of Historic Places.

It was one of the most elegant places we had ever seen. Only churches and the Paterson City Hall compared with it. Even in the big library, however, we were not allowed grown-up books, except for biographies. Why the librarians thought that the lives of real people would be more edifying than those of fictional characters is beyond me now, but in those days we just took what we could get. Consequently, I read the lives of Fred Allen, William Randolph Hearst, and Lunt and Fontaine, among many others—lives of people who lived large, an idea one could hardly get a whiff of in our working class neighborhood.

Now I am privileged to do my research at the Main Branch—the Stephen Schwarzman Building—of the New York Public Library, a marble temple of knowledge that can tell you anything you want to know and will tell it to you no matter who you are.

 An Italian friend who was living here in New York was amazed when she found out how egalitarian our library is. We went together to do research one day. She is from Florence, home to one of great libraries of the world: The Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze. It is massive and beautiful. And like libraries everywhere has on staff some of the most devoted employees anywhere. When the floodwaters were rising in 1966, one of them, a woman, stayed until the last possible moment, moving priceless treasures from the lower floors to the upper ones. When it was too late to continue, she escaped over the rooftops, carrying Galileo’s telescope. That library is fabulous, but unlike ours, you can’t just walk in. You have to have top-notch credentials just to get through the door.

Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze

My friend and I walked into the Main Branch one day along with scores of others seeking all kinds of information. She wanted to know the New York City and New York State laws governing the manufacture of foods containing dairy products. I wanted a map of Paraguay in 1868. We both found what we wanted: she in the main reading room, and I in the Map Division. Where else in the world can you do that? And get the help of kind and knowledgeable people to do it efficiently. It’s amazing.

Map Division

And it is gorgeous, is it not?

Main Reading Room

Your library needs you. You may not even go there yourself, but the library deserves your support. PLEASE, give a donation to your local public library. You can probably give online in a couple of minutes. There are kids in your town who need the library, for whom it will open vistas that will change their lives.