The root of the word "library" comes from the Latin liber, which is what Virgil and Ovid and the gang called tree bark. Peeled carefully from a trunk, bark proved a serviceable writing surface. So it's fitting that a library remains a building filled with parts of trees, now pulped and pressed.
No wonder that the libraries saluted in "Libraries of Minnesota" (Minnesota Historical Society Press, $24.95) appear to have literal roots that extend not only into the neat lots of Bayport and Warroad and St. Anthony, but into readers who, despite Kindle and Google and YouTube, use their library cards.
For their part, the librarians probably saw me as a shy kid who liked to read and preferred to be left to his own devices. ... They understand that sometimes the best to way attach a book to a boy is to leave him to find it on his own.
-- Pete Hautman
Hautman is one of seven Minnesota writers who reflect on libraries' place in their lives. He and Nancy Carlson, Will Weaver, Kao Kalia Yang, David LaRochelle, John Coy and Marsha Wilson Chall write with what can only be called a sense of yearning. As writers of books for children and young adults, the focus on their own early experiences makes sense. But they also know that the reading rooms of their youth, with their shushing librarians, are evolving.
Major changes are occurring in the ways we read, the ways we tell stories, and the ways we gather information. I believe that public libraries are more important now than ever. ... They provide a public symbol of the equal opportunity we espouse.
-- John Coy
In Newport Beach, Calif., the city is considering a bookless library. The idea is to replace the current library with a community center that has a kiosk with video-calling software through which you could order a book, which would be dropped off at a locker.