Dreams of Perfection

This morning I had a strange dream. I was in a laboratory with Mr. Phillips. We both wore white lab coats and were somehow supposed to be working on the classification system. It was as though Mr. Phillips was Dr. Frankenstein and I was Igor. There were books and sheets of paper strewn across a long table, and I was rummaging through them really fast, sorting and organizing them into stacks, and it seemed to be a race against time. Finally Mr. Phillips raised his hands toward the thundering, lightning-flashing sky and proclaimed, "I have achieved... perfection!"

After this I dreamed I was at Vivian's house. I've never been there in real life, so I have no idea what it actually looks like, but in the dream it was an old Victorian townhouse. She told me to classify everything in her house--books, dishes, clothing, you name it. It was an arduous task because Vivian made sure that I got everything perfect.

Boy, was I glad to wake up.

Perfection

Today I was sitting at a desk working on the classification project, with thesauri, dictionaries, and encyclopedias spread out before me, drawing diagrams with a pencil and notepad and doing a lot of erasing. Vivian was shelving some books nearby, and at one point, having long since lost my ability to concentrate on the work at hand, I started watching her. Not overtly staring, mind you, just sort of surreptitiously, casually glancing every now and then while I pretended to look busy. I found myself captivated by the way she shelved the books, so... I don't know how else to put it... elegantly. Just like when she stamped the due date cards. Every motion seemed perfect. I don't mean in a mechanical way, but in a graceful way. It was almost like watching some kind of ballet. And--well, I know this is going to sound funny, since Vivian is probably 15 or 20 years older than me--she seemed, in that moment, strangely beautiful. I don't mean to say that I like her, not in that way anyway. I just mean that she appeared to me to possess the kind of beauty that a ballerina does. It's not so much sexual as it is aesthetic.

Anyway, this got me to thinking about culture and civilization, and how they are by definition a human addition to nature. In case you don't see the connection, I'll explain. Vivian's elegance, it occurred to me, isn't so much her "natural" way of moving as it is a cultivated sophistication, just as a ballerina's movements are. Like music, poetry, architecture, or for that matter any kind of technology, her movements are human constructions, "improvements" upon nature if you will. But aren't human beings themselves part of nature? If so, how can anything we do or make be un-natural? To distinguish the artificial from the natural seems to suggest that human beings can somehow transcend nature. And if we can transcend nature, isn't that an amazing thing? Perhaps it is human nature to transcend nature, if "nature" means that which is given to us, and to add something of our own creation.

I see that Mr. Phillips takes this approach to classification. He doesn't care so much about his system being a mirror of nature as he is interested in creating a great work of art... beautiful yet arbitrary. Well, there's nothing wrong with that, I suppose. But my approach has been to try to figure out nature itself... the way things are. I can assure you this is easier said than done. Science and philosophy attempt to do this, and they are famous for being intellectually challenging disciplines. Scientists at least have physical stuff to work with, things they can observe and verify. Philosophers deal in abstract ideas, logical relationships, metaphysical entities. Perhaps it is too much for me, or perhaps for anyone, to attempt to construct a library classification system by simultaneously constructing a philosophical system, rather than basing it on already existing philosophical principles.

At any rate, I don't see why Mr. Phillips thinks of his system as a work of art and yet strives for it to be "perfect". I don't know why I never noticed this apparent discrepancy before. How can one say that a work of art is perfect? Does he just mean in an aesthetic sense, as we would say that a certain song or painting is perfect, by which we would mean that it is flawless and perfectly executed? Up till now I have thought of a "perfect" classification system as one that perfectly expresses the structure of reality. By now I'm starting to become disillusioned with the possibility of attaining such a thing. I do believe that reality has a structure, but I've come to realize that it's a lot more complex and intricate than we can ever hope to understand. Is Mr. Phillips right? Should classificationists (if that's what we're called) consider what we do an art more than a science?

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.

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.