Sorry I haven't posted in a few days. I've been busy. On Friday, Mr. Phillips let me in on his grand classification scheme. It seems he had been working on a classification system for some years, which he had referred to as the Perfect System. Well, after much development and hard work, he had come to feel that it was inadequate, not so perfect after all, so he shelved it (so to speak) and is now starting over on a new one. This one he calls (are you ready?) the Greater Perfect System. The old one he now refers to as (I know you're not ready for this one) the Lesser Perfect System.
Anyway, it seems that Mr. Phillips wants me, for reasons known and probably comprehensible only to himself, to assist him in the construction of the GPS. He gave me a copy of Roget's Thesaurus of Words and Phrases to help me get started. Unlike most current thesauri that list words in alphabetical order, dictionary-style, this is an older edition that lists words by category--in other words, a sort of classification system. But the old Roget's is a classification of words, not of books, so it can't be adapted as it is for use in a library. However, as Mr. Phillips points out, words are essentially ideas, and Roget's categorization of words is essentially a categorization of ideas, which can provide the basis, or at least some kind of rough guide or helpful aid, for a library classification system.
At any rate, ever since I got home from work on Friday, I've been working on the GPS, with Roget's and a notebook and pen (Mr. Phillips would like it that way, sans computer). I have to admit I've become rather fascinated and obsessed with the project. Geeky, I know. I guess I've caught a little bit of Mr. Phillips' classification mania.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Card Catalog
Today Mr. Phillips had Vivian teach me how to type catalog cards. Yes, type, as in using a typewriter (manual, no less).
I don't care what Mr. Phillips thinks, there is something to be said for word processors. Every single time I made a mistake (which was often), I had to toss that card and start all over. This was especially frustrating when I made the mistake near the end. And believe me, Vivian made sure that I got each card perfect, down to the smallest detail of punctuation and spacing, before allowing me to move on to the next one.
After I had spent the morning practicing how to make the cards, Vivian then taught me both how to file them in the card catalog drawers and how to find cards in the catalog by author, title, and subject. That last part I vaguely remembered from grade school, back in the days before you could look up a book on the library's computer catalog.
I have to admit that the card catalog is aesthetically superior to its computerized version, and, to tell the truth, once you get the hang of it, it's not really that much more difficult to use, if at all. Maybe Mr. Phillips is onto something, at least when it comes to keeping the card catalog.
I still think he's wrong, though, about there being no right answer to the bone classification exercise. I can't really explain how, exactly, but I'm working on it.
I don't care what Mr. Phillips thinks, there is something to be said for word processors. Every single time I made a mistake (which was often), I had to toss that card and start all over. This was especially frustrating when I made the mistake near the end. And believe me, Vivian made sure that I got each card perfect, down to the smallest detail of punctuation and spacing, before allowing me to move on to the next one.
After I had spent the morning practicing how to make the cards, Vivian then taught me both how to file them in the card catalog drawers and how to find cards in the catalog by author, title, and subject. That last part I vaguely remembered from grade school, back in the days before you could look up a book on the library's computer catalog.
I have to admit that the card catalog is aesthetically superior to its computerized version, and, to tell the truth, once you get the hang of it, it's not really that much more difficult to use, if at all. Maybe Mr. Phillips is onto something, at least when it comes to keeping the card catalog.
I still think he's wrong, though, about there being no right answer to the bone classification exercise. I can't really explain how, exactly, but I'm working on it.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Eye Test
Today was weird. Which, of course, is normal when you're the apprentice to Walter J. Phillips, the great librarian.
Today Mr. Phillips sat me in a comfortable chair in a dark room and showed me slides of birds. He would show three birds in succession, a, b, and c, then a and b side by side, followed by a and c, then b and c. Then he would ask me which pair seemed to resemble each other the most. If I seemed uncertain (which was more often the case than not), he would run through them again, saying, "A and B... A and C... B and C. OK, one more time..." I felt like I was at the optometrist.
By the way, if you're wondering what any of this has to do with librarianship... you're in good company. Mr. Phillips' pedagogical methods get stranger and stranger every day.
"All right, here we have Corvus corax... followed by C. brachyrhynchos... and lastly C. frugilegus. Now here is C. corax with C. brachyrhynchos... next is C. corax with C. frugilegus... and finally we have C. brachyrhynchos with C. frugilegus. Which pair is the best match? Here they are again..."
And so on, for about three or four hours.
Don't ask me. I just work here.
Today Mr. Phillips sat me in a comfortable chair in a dark room and showed me slides of birds. He would show three birds in succession, a, b, and c, then a and b side by side, followed by a and c, then b and c. Then he would ask me which pair seemed to resemble each other the most. If I seemed uncertain (which was more often the case than not), he would run through them again, saying, "A and B... A and C... B and C. OK, one more time..." I felt like I was at the optometrist.
By the way, if you're wondering what any of this has to do with librarianship... you're in good company. Mr. Phillips' pedagogical methods get stranger and stranger every day.
"All right, here we have Corvus corax... followed by C. brachyrhynchos... and lastly C. frugilegus. Now here is C. corax with C. brachyrhynchos... next is C. corax with C. frugilegus... and finally we have C. brachyrhynchos with C. frugilegus. Which pair is the best match? Here they are again..."
And so on, for about three or four hours.
Don't ask me. I just work here.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The IQ Test
Ok, so I had to "classify" a box of bones. Easy, right?
Well, considering that I know almost nothing about anatomy, not so easy. I wasn't sure what type of animal these bones were from, or even if they were all from the same type of animal. How was I supposed to find out? I suppose I could find some books on animal bones...
And how should I classify them, anyway? By size? Shape? Body part? Species? Who could say? Mr. Phillips was out of the library all day, so I could not ask him for clarification. I only had a one-word command: CLASSIFY.
Was this some kind of intelligence test? A lesson in the difficulty of classification? If it was the latter, then I can say that I learned my lesson well. When you know next to nothing about bones, classifying bones is a near impossible task.
Well, I started out the best I could, organizing them by general size and shape, what looked like leg bones here, what appeared to be vertebrae there...
But this approach soon became complicated. At some point it becomes hard to know how to group things, what to put together and what to keep apart. Which is more important, the similarity or the difference? At one extreme, you just have to lump them all together as "bones"; at the other extreme, each bone is a unique individual specimen. Is every object a prime number, divisible only by itself and one? Are there really "kinds" of things, or are all classifications arbitrary? It seems there would have to be real kinds... all of these objects are obviously bones. But what about different kinds of bones? Are the divisions between different types of bones as definite and clear as what divides bones from non-bones? And of what greater thing are bones just one kind? Is there only a single group to which they belong? Can't we say that bones are a kind of this thing, but also a kind of that thing? And wouldn't everything that exists ultimately have to be a "kind" of one ultimate thing? A kind of what? Thing? What is a thing, anyway?
While my head swirled with such vertigo-inducing philosophical questions, the bone classification exercise became increasingly difficult and frustrating. Just when I thought I had a good system down, the next bone specimen would throw a wrench in the works and I had to rethink all of my assumptions.
Where did Mr. Phillips get all these stupid bones, anyway? Why does he have them? Just to torment me?
Mr. Phillips finally stopped by right before 5 o'clock to look at my work. "Interesting," he said.
"Well?" I asked. "Did I get it right?"
He gave me a funny look. "Right? Why, young man, you miss the whole point. As I told you, classification is an art." He shrugged nonchalantly. "There's no right answer." He chuckled and turned to leave. Needless to say, I was smoldering.
I almost didn't want to believe him. I didn't want to believe that I had just wasted eight hours of my life trying to find something that didn't exist. I wasn't sure if I should be more angry with Mr. Phillips or with myself. So last night I sulked.
Today, I started to think that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Phillips was wrong.
Well, considering that I know almost nothing about anatomy, not so easy. I wasn't sure what type of animal these bones were from, or even if they were all from the same type of animal. How was I supposed to find out? I suppose I could find some books on animal bones...
And how should I classify them, anyway? By size? Shape? Body part? Species? Who could say? Mr. Phillips was out of the library all day, so I could not ask him for clarification. I only had a one-word command: CLASSIFY.
Was this some kind of intelligence test? A lesson in the difficulty of classification? If it was the latter, then I can say that I learned my lesson well. When you know next to nothing about bones, classifying bones is a near impossible task.
Well, I started out the best I could, organizing them by general size and shape, what looked like leg bones here, what appeared to be vertebrae there...
But this approach soon became complicated. At some point it becomes hard to know how to group things, what to put together and what to keep apart. Which is more important, the similarity or the difference? At one extreme, you just have to lump them all together as "bones"; at the other extreme, each bone is a unique individual specimen. Is every object a prime number, divisible only by itself and one? Are there really "kinds" of things, or are all classifications arbitrary? It seems there would have to be real kinds... all of these objects are obviously bones. But what about different kinds of bones? Are the divisions between different types of bones as definite and clear as what divides bones from non-bones? And of what greater thing are bones just one kind? Is there only a single group to which they belong? Can't we say that bones are a kind of this thing, but also a kind of that thing? And wouldn't everything that exists ultimately have to be a "kind" of one ultimate thing? A kind of what? Thing? What is a thing, anyway?
While my head swirled with such vertigo-inducing philosophical questions, the bone classification exercise became increasingly difficult and frustrating. Just when I thought I had a good system down, the next bone specimen would throw a wrench in the works and I had to rethink all of my assumptions.
Where did Mr. Phillips get all these stupid bones, anyway? Why does he have them? Just to torment me?
Mr. Phillips finally stopped by right before 5 o'clock to look at my work. "Interesting," he said.
"Well?" I asked. "Did I get it right?"
He gave me a funny look. "Right? Why, young man, you miss the whole point. As I told you, classification is an art." He shrugged nonchalantly. "There's no right answer." He chuckled and turned to leave. Needless to say, I was smoldering.
I almost didn't want to believe him. I didn't want to believe that I had just wasted eight hours of my life trying to find something that didn't exist. I wasn't sure if I should be more angry with Mr. Phillips or with myself. So last night I sulked.
Today, I started to think that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Phillips was wrong.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Only Classify
Where do I begin.
I came in today, Monday morning, and Vivian told me that there was an "assignment" from Mr. Phillips waiting for me in the workroom.
So I went in the workroom, where I saw a large cardboard box sitting on a table. A handwritten sign on the box said simply:
CLASSIFY
I opened the box.
It was full of bones.
I kid you not.
...sigh...
I'll tell you the rest tomorrow. Right now I just need a beer.
I came in today, Monday morning, and Vivian told me that there was an "assignment" from Mr. Phillips waiting for me in the workroom.
So I went in the workroom, where I saw a large cardboard box sitting on a table. A handwritten sign on the box said simply:
CLASSIFY
I opened the box.
It was full of bones.
I kid you not.
...sigh...
I'll tell you the rest tomorrow. Right now I just need a beer.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Dewey Decimation System
On Friday Mr. Phillips called me into his office. "Allow me to let you in on a secret," he said.
I waited. Then Mr. Phillips leaned forward, looked at me seriously, and said:
"Dewey was wrong."
I had to think for a moment. "As in the Dewey Decimal system?"
"The very one! Well, I'm here to tell you that Melvil Dewey, creator of the much-vaunted Dewey Decimal Classification system, didn't know what the hell he was talking about!"
"He didn't?"
"No! To think that you can classify everything that exists into ten and exactly ten groups? How convenient! And that each of those ten groups is further divisible into ten subgroups, and so on? Such a neat and tidy cosmology! As though the universe does everything in tens!"
"I never thought of it that way."
"Well, let me tell you this: The Dewey Decimal Classification system is something to be surpassed! Mankind can do far better!"
"What about the Library of Congress system?" I ventured, remembering my work in a university library.
"Library of Congress?! You've got to be kidding! Leave it to the United States government to devise the single worst classification system known to man! Why, it's hardly even worthy of the name! The word 'system' at least implies that there is some sense to it! The problem with Dewey is that it has too much sense; with Library of Congress, that it has--as one would expect of anything associated with Congress--too little sense!"
"So what is the answer, sir?"
"I'm so glad you asked, young man. Because that brings us to the very crux of librarianship and indeed of your apprenticeship. Classification. It is the heart of the matter. It is what we librarians do. We take the vast multitude of books that exist and we sort them out into some kind of comprehensible system. Otherwise, people would never be able to find what it is they're looking for. But it is more than that. That is just the practical, day-to-day outcome. Ease of finding is all they teach you in library school, but that is merely the natural result of classification. Classification, my boy, is an art, the finest art in the fine art of librarianship! A classification system is like architecture, like poetry, like music! Unfortunately for the world, however, Dewey's system is utterly dull and prosaic, while Congress's is pure noise! What we need is a classification system that will rise up like a symphony of human knowledge, in perfect harmony!"
I have to admit that at this point I thought Mr. Phillips was starting to sound a little crazy. Idealistic, yes, brilliant even, but just a little bit nuts. That is, until the next thing he said...
"And you, young man, are going to help me compose the perfect classification system!"
Then I thought he was totally out of his mind.
I waited. Then Mr. Phillips leaned forward, looked at me seriously, and said:
"Dewey was wrong."
I had to think for a moment. "As in the Dewey Decimal system?"
"The very one! Well, I'm here to tell you that Melvil Dewey, creator of the much-vaunted Dewey Decimal Classification system, didn't know what the hell he was talking about!"
"He didn't?"
"No! To think that you can classify everything that exists into ten and exactly ten groups? How convenient! And that each of those ten groups is further divisible into ten subgroups, and so on? Such a neat and tidy cosmology! As though the universe does everything in tens!"
"I never thought of it that way."
"Well, let me tell you this: The Dewey Decimal Classification system is something to be surpassed! Mankind can do far better!"
"What about the Library of Congress system?" I ventured, remembering my work in a university library.
"Library of Congress?! You've got to be kidding! Leave it to the United States government to devise the single worst classification system known to man! Why, it's hardly even worthy of the name! The word 'system' at least implies that there is some sense to it! The problem with Dewey is that it has too much sense; with Library of Congress, that it has--as one would expect of anything associated with Congress--too little sense!"
"So what is the answer, sir?"
"I'm so glad you asked, young man. Because that brings us to the very crux of librarianship and indeed of your apprenticeship. Classification. It is the heart of the matter. It is what we librarians do. We take the vast multitude of books that exist and we sort them out into some kind of comprehensible system. Otherwise, people would never be able to find what it is they're looking for. But it is more than that. That is just the practical, day-to-day outcome. Ease of finding is all they teach you in library school, but that is merely the natural result of classification. Classification, my boy, is an art, the finest art in the fine art of librarianship! A classification system is like architecture, like poetry, like music! Unfortunately for the world, however, Dewey's system is utterly dull and prosaic, while Congress's is pure noise! What we need is a classification system that will rise up like a symphony of human knowledge, in perfect harmony!"
I have to admit that at this point I thought Mr. Phillips was starting to sound a little crazy. Idealistic, yes, brilliant even, but just a little bit nuts. That is, until the next thing he said...
"And you, young man, are going to help me compose the perfect classification system!"
Then I thought he was totally out of his mind.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Tech Guru
Today the Foundation's main IT guy, whom I shall call Jason, came into the library to make a presentation about databases and why they are a good idea for storing the Foundation's archival records and documents. (Yes, the Foundation itself does have computers, just not its library, in the sense that none of the library functions have been computerized. Some of the individual library employees have computers in their offices, but not, of course, Mr. Phillips, who refuses to have one of "the devil's tools" on his desk.) I don't need to tell you that Mr. Phillips was a hard sell on this idea of digital archiving.
"Preposterous!" he blurted out in the middle of Jason's presentation.
Jason just stood there for a moment, unsure how to respond. He is a younger guy, about my age, with bushy dark hair, beard, and glasses. Definitely a "geek" type, and the philosophical opposite of Walter J. Phillips in every way imaginable. Finally he said, "And how is it preposterous, Mr. Phillips?"
"Leave it to a tech guru to come up with the perfect way not to preserve documents!" [At this point I saw Jason give Monica a quizzical frown and mouth silently, 'guru?'] "Do you really think your computerized toys are going to last as long as these books? When it comes to archiving, I'll put up good old-fashioned paper against your bright and shiny gadgets any time!"
"Mr. Phillips," said Jason with patience and a hint of amusement, "it's true that paper does have many good qualities and it's a medium that has served us well for a long time. However, the truth of the matter is that paper decays--you have millions of books sitting on library shelves right now silently rotting away--whereas digital files are capable of being around indefinitely. So I would--"
"Indefinitely?!" Mr. Phillips interrupted. "That's what you tech gurus think, isn't it? You think that all your computer files are going to be around forever! Well, you mark my words, young man, I predict that all your digital files will vanish long before my books!"
"Really. And how do you figure?"
"Why, just think about it! Have you heard of peak oil?"
"Of course. It's when the global oil supply begins to decline. But what--"
"Well, computers, and all the digital files they contain, depend on electricity to keep them going, don't they?"
"Yeees..."
"So when the oil becomes more scarce and more expensive, so does the electricity, and the more costly it becomes to keep the computers up and running and the digital files alive! And when the oil runs out, there goes the power grid, and all your computers are worthless, your digital files gone forever!"
Jason chuckled. "But you're forgetting about alternative energy sources--"
"I'm sorry, but I can't entrust the future of important documents to blind optimism! When all the computers lie dead, the books will still be sitting on the shelves, just as readable as ever! Now, if you'll excuse me, I've heard enough of this nonsense. Quite frankly, to continue further would be a waste of my time and yours. Good day, Mr. ----."
Mr. Phillips left the conference room, leaving Jason, the IT guy, stunned. He looked at us and shook his head. "Unbelievable," he said with faint hilarity. "Simply un-believable."
"Preposterous!" he blurted out in the middle of Jason's presentation.
Jason just stood there for a moment, unsure how to respond. He is a younger guy, about my age, with bushy dark hair, beard, and glasses. Definitely a "geek" type, and the philosophical opposite of Walter J. Phillips in every way imaginable. Finally he said, "And how is it preposterous, Mr. Phillips?"
"Leave it to a tech guru to come up with the perfect way not to preserve documents!" [At this point I saw Jason give Monica a quizzical frown and mouth silently, 'guru?'] "Do you really think your computerized toys are going to last as long as these books? When it comes to archiving, I'll put up good old-fashioned paper against your bright and shiny gadgets any time!"
"Mr. Phillips," said Jason with patience and a hint of amusement, "it's true that paper does have many good qualities and it's a medium that has served us well for a long time. However, the truth of the matter is that paper decays--you have millions of books sitting on library shelves right now silently rotting away--whereas digital files are capable of being around indefinitely. So I would--"
"Indefinitely?!" Mr. Phillips interrupted. "That's what you tech gurus think, isn't it? You think that all your computer files are going to be around forever! Well, you mark my words, young man, I predict that all your digital files will vanish long before my books!"
"Really. And how do you figure?"
"Why, just think about it! Have you heard of peak oil?"
"Of course. It's when the global oil supply begins to decline. But what--"
"Well, computers, and all the digital files they contain, depend on electricity to keep them going, don't they?"
"Yeees..."
"So when the oil becomes more scarce and more expensive, so does the electricity, and the more costly it becomes to keep the computers up and running and the digital files alive! And when the oil runs out, there goes the power grid, and all your computers are worthless, your digital files gone forever!"
Jason chuckled. "But you're forgetting about alternative energy sources--"
"I'm sorry, but I can't entrust the future of important documents to blind optimism! When all the computers lie dead, the books will still be sitting on the shelves, just as readable as ever! Now, if you'll excuse me, I've heard enough of this nonsense. Quite frankly, to continue further would be a waste of my time and yours. Good day, Mr. ----."
Mr. Phillips left the conference room, leaving Jason, the IT guy, stunned. He looked at us and shook his head. "Unbelievable," he said with faint hilarity. "Simply un-believable."
Monday, May 5, 2008
Library Perverts
So today I asked Mr. Phillips why he chose me to be his apprentice even though I don't have an MLS. I should have known such a question would set him off.
"That is precisely why I chose you, young man," he said, "because you haven't had your mind warped by library school and the perverse doctrines that it teaches."
I couldn't help asking. "Perverse?"
"Yes, perverse! They call it Library Science! Science! Librarianship, my boy, is not a science! It is an art! That's right. The librarian is an artist, and the library his work of art. A library is one of the most complex and intricate works of art that man is capable of creating. It consists of a building or room, true, and shelves, but these are the mere frame for the painting, which consists of the books. The librarian chooses which books to include, and combines them into a harmonious whole, a veritable symphony of knowledge!"
Interesting notion, I had to admit. When I was growing up I had never thought of my local public library as a work of art. I had also never thought of the old lady who checked out my books to me as an artist. Then again, I had never thought of her as a scientist either.
"But what is even more perverse than the heresy of Library Science," continued Mr. Phillips, in full tirade mode, "is the blasphemy of Information Science! Information! To think," he protested, "that libraries can be reduced to information! It boggles the mind!"
I was afraid to confess that it wasn't perfectly obvious to me what the problem was with saying that libraries were about information, but Mr. Phillips saw the questioning look on my face.
"Really!" he said, indignant. "What kind of philistines run these schools today, to insist that libraries serve no higher purpose than the dissemination of facts and information?" [He said the word with palpable distaste.] "Libraries, young man, are about knowledge! Knowledge is not something you can 'Google'--if it were, we'd all be geniuses by now, wouldn't we?--no, it's something that you earn through hard work and diligent research, and above all, intensive reading and thought!"
I nodded. Walter J. Phillips is a rather intimidating man, and someone in my position does well to nod frequently and keep silence. Besides, I know next to nothing about librarianship, and Mr. Phillips is highly reputable in the field, if controversial. Later in the afternoon, while shelving periodicals (I'm still officially a shelver), I looked up the October 2003 issue of Libraries Today, which one of my coworkers had shown me when I first started. Mr. Phillips is featured on the cover of that issue, an authoritative scowl on his face. The caption reads, THE DOUGLAS ARTHUR FOUNDATION'S WALTER J. PHILLIPS: CONTRARIAN LIBRARIAN.
Boy, I thought. They sure got that right.
"That is precisely why I chose you, young man," he said, "because you haven't had your mind warped by library school and the perverse doctrines that it teaches."
I couldn't help asking. "Perverse?"
"Yes, perverse! They call it Library Science! Science! Librarianship, my boy, is not a science! It is an art! That's right. The librarian is an artist, and the library his work of art. A library is one of the most complex and intricate works of art that man is capable of creating. It consists of a building or room, true, and shelves, but these are the mere frame for the painting, which consists of the books. The librarian chooses which books to include, and combines them into a harmonious whole, a veritable symphony of knowledge!"
Interesting notion, I had to admit. When I was growing up I had never thought of my local public library as a work of art. I had also never thought of the old lady who checked out my books to me as an artist. Then again, I had never thought of her as a scientist either.
"But what is even more perverse than the heresy of Library Science," continued Mr. Phillips, in full tirade mode, "is the blasphemy of Information Science! Information! To think," he protested, "that libraries can be reduced to information! It boggles the mind!"
I was afraid to confess that it wasn't perfectly obvious to me what the problem was with saying that libraries were about information, but Mr. Phillips saw the questioning look on my face.
"Really!" he said, indignant. "What kind of philistines run these schools today, to insist that libraries serve no higher purpose than the dissemination of facts and information?" [He said the word with palpable distaste.] "Libraries, young man, are about knowledge! Knowledge is not something you can 'Google'--if it were, we'd all be geniuses by now, wouldn't we?--no, it's something that you earn through hard work and diligent research, and above all, intensive reading and thought!"
I nodded. Walter J. Phillips is a rather intimidating man, and someone in my position does well to nod frequently and keep silence. Besides, I know next to nothing about librarianship, and Mr. Phillips is highly reputable in the field, if controversial. Later in the afternoon, while shelving periodicals (I'm still officially a shelver), I looked up the October 2003 issue of Libraries Today, which one of my coworkers had shown me when I first started. Mr. Phillips is featured on the cover of that issue, an authoritative scowl on his face. The caption reads, THE DOUGLAS ARTHUR FOUNDATION'S WALTER J. PHILLIPS: CONTRARIAN LIBRARIAN.
Boy, I thought. They sure got that right.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Library School
I have to say that not everyone at the library is pleased about my apprenticeship. Take Monica (as I shall call her). She is one of these oh-so-cool hipster librarians who wears black frame glasses and vintage clothes and thinks she can look down her nose at me just because she has an MLS and a superior command of the Dewey Decimal system. On Friday she saw me stamping due date cards (yes, again), and remarked that it was a mere clerical task and had nothing to do with what professional librarians do, and wondered why Mr. Phillips made me practice such a menial action so obsessively. I told her I didn't know but I trusted that Mr. Phillips, being the great librarian that he is, must have had some very good reason for making me practice due date stamping. Then she shrugged and made some comment about how it was highly unexpected that Mr. Phillips chose me to be his apprentice when I hadn't even gone to library school. She didn't come right out and say it, but I know that Monica is jealous and feels that the situation is unfair. The way I see it, though, Mr. Phillips is putting me through his own unique version of library school. I don't know why he chose me, though. I'm not one to question good fortune, but it does make me a little curious. Perhaps I'll ask him about it on Monday.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Due Dates
Today Mr. Phillips made me practice stamping due date cards, the way the librarian used to check out books to me when I was a kid. Mr. Phillips is an older gentleman, what some would call a cranky old man, and is fiercely, you might even say maniacally, conservative (not necessarily politically--I have no idea what his politics are--but certainly when it comes to librarianship). I think he has been running this place for about 30 years and he has managed to this day to prevent the intrusion of computers ("those infernal machines", as he so colorfully refers to them) into the Foundation's library. Indeed, when I first started working here last fall, I felt like I was stepping back in time, back to my childhood in the 70's when the library still had a card catalog and the librarian stamped the due date on the little due date card and stuck it in the pocket in the back of the book. Well, the electronic age has yet to arrive at the library of the Douglas Arthur Foundation, and, as long as Walter J. Phillips is in charge, the 21st century will just have to wait.
Mr. Phillips had to attend some important meeting this morning, so he delegated the actual due-date-stamping training to his second-in-command, a fiftyish woman whom I shall call Vivian. Vivian has been here almost as long as Phillips and seems his equal, if that were possible, in library conservatism, while successfully managing to embody just about every librarian stereotype you've ever heard. She wears cat-eye glasses, her brown hair is invariably pulled up in a bun, and I'm pretty sure she's unmarried. I've heard her mention her cat, but never anything about a husband or children. I once saw her shush some important members of the Foundation who were chatting in the reading room. They respectfully, if begrudgingly, complied.
Anyway, Vivian demonstrated for me the correct method of stamping due date cards. "First," she said, "you pull the card out of the pocket."
She pulled a card out of its pocket in the back of a book.
"Then you take the stamp... if it's the beginning of the day, make sure it is set to the correct due date..." [she held it up so I could see that it was set to 15 MAY 2008, two weeks from today] "...then you ink it... not too much ink, mind you. Next you stamp the card on the first empty line on the left hand side, unless that side is full, in which case you stamp it on the first empty line on the right. Now watch, this is very important... you must bring the stamp down at a 45-degree angle, like so... then roll it, gently but firmly, up then down... applying just the right amount of pressure... too little and you've left an incomplete date, too much and you've made an ungodly mess. Then you return the stamp to its holder... and lastly, return the card to the pocket, quietly close the book, and slide it discreetly to the patron. You know, of course, that libraries do not have customers, they have patrons. A library is not a business."
"Of course."
"Very good. Now here, you give it a try."
Nervously, I tried to emulate all of Vivian's moves. Every single one of her motions had displayed complete perfection and the utmost elegance, which I suppose had come with almost three decades of practice. She really has this due date stamping thing down to a science. Perhaps even an art. My first attempt was less than perfect.
"Darn," I said, careful not to swear in front of the stern Vivian.
"That's all right, it's your first time. You'll improve with practice. Here," she said, producing from a drawer a huge stack of due date cards, "why don't you go into the workroom and practice until ten o'clock."
Two hours of stamping due date cards? Well, I told myself, if this is what it takes to become a great librarian, I'm willing to put in the time. After all, great musicians don't become that way without hours of repetitive practice, right?
I've gotta tell ya, though, my hand is still sore.
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