Musty, the most common word used to describe the smell of old books, isn’t quite right. Musty suggests moldy, stale, something that’s time has passed. Instead, I imagine the smell of roots, anchored beneath soil that supports whatever life buds above it, has much in common with the smell of old books.
Entering the Indianapolis Central Public Library on the “old side,” I don’t pause to appreciate this smell, the hush, or the muted gold light from the chandeliers that supply the hallowed ambience I expect in a library. The original 1917 portion of the library descends rather than explodes upon the senses as the 2007 addition does.
Sunlight surges in from all directions when I step into the atrium serving as a gateway to the new addition. People stream by stepping on the shadows of the white, metal beams that sprout from the floor and uncurl like trees at the top. A man passes holding a stack of folders with a job application on top. A woman scurries, knees bent and hand extended to catch the book threatening to fall from the pile her child carries to the checkout.
Baking bread and brewing coffee spill into the air from the café in the corner. A menacing sculpture I don’t realize is a bird until I am beside it soars in the opposite corner. “Peace Dove” is made of over 1000 firearm parts, a memorial for county homicide victims created by a local firefighter. I stand in reverence for a moment as the hum of the library’s life carries on around me.
Adjacent to the atrium, escalators connect six floors of knowledge, bound, shelved, and organized subject by fascinating subject. In addition to Literature, Science, and Geography, there is a sheet music collection, a display case filled only with books about Lego toys, and plastic domes containing scenes from story books erupting from the floor in the children’s section. The passions of many are represented here.
The addition to the library was designed to dazzle and it does, but I am content to end my visit back on the original side. The marble columns and golden-paged books stacked to the ceiling don’t insist on being noticed in the same way as the treasures on the new side, but they are exquisite nonetheless.
The engraved names of authors garnishing the wall are the final feature. I recognize many, Bradbury, L’Engle, Chaucer, Angelou, but some are new to me. There is room for all of them here.
