And Another Thing | 24 May 2008

I sympathise with those mediaeval Jewish rabbis who, asked to describe heaven, pictured it as a perfect library. For them books were, or ought to be, inseparable from holiness. The words themselves, even the ink, had divine attributes. One 11th-century rabbi said that the works already present welcomed or rejected newcomers. They sensed whether new writings were edifying or not. If so, they would crowd themselves together and say: ‘Welcome! Plenty of room here!’ If they smelt wickedness, they would spread out: ‘No place here for you! Go away!’ So the heavenly library was always equally full, or empty, like a magic drinking vessel. This dealt with the main difficulty of an earthly library, a problem which is insoluble. A library must be full, for nothing is more repellent than empty shelves. On the other hand, if it is full, how is space to be found to accommodate new books, without which the library dies?

My perfect library would be a wing of a country house, with very high ceilings and a gallery; below it French windows opening on to a meadow with trees in the distance.