From the Editor

“You are from Birkdale. You have come,” the librarian paused for a moment not quite sure how to complete the sentence, “a long way to find this information.” The librarian maintained her gaze, genuinely concerned that what she had said might be upsetting if it had conveyed information that I had not already considered. This trip to visit the main library in Liverpool was indeed a journey, and it would require a day. Any trip over 20 miles was considered an expedition, an event that needed planning: there were bus routes and train timetables to negotiate and coordinate, and do not forget the abbreviated Saturday schedule. When was the last bus from the station?

While our unassuming and uneventful town had a perfectly reasonable library encased in history, at that time in my life, I only found it dusty and foreboding. The building hadn't been cleaned or restored (as many have been now); the war some 20 years before still inhabited the walls. The exterior toiled under the demands of decay and pollution; the stucco was peeling and scrofulous.

I never found the smell of these old buildings inviting. The allure of the books could never trump the smell of the damp in the walls that seemed to be in a constant battle with the occasional hours of sunlight that strained to enter through windows located high up the majestic walls. I realize that, to this day, I will open and smell the pages of any book that finds its way into my hands. It is a sensory introduction between book and human, an unconventional greeting between mind and matter, returning to the most primitive of senses to locate the book in time and space.

The entrance to the library was through a large revolving door that transported you into a sanctuary. The carpet, draperies, and wall hangings were all heavy and dulled, adding to the somber silence. While I would like to think that the choice of carpet and draperies were in the service of the maintenance of introspection, my suspicions now attribute their heaviness a