library voices

As you may jealously recall, we here at the Ambulette are members of a private lending library. It is located in a tony old building in Manhattan, a soothing and clubby retreat from the surrounding Diamond District bustle. And it means that books are available to us for free -- good and new books, books that can rarely be found at the plebeian -- I mean public -- library.

But it also means inner conflict. Because we here at the Ambulette also are rather serious in our belief that people ought to buy books. Because other people write books, and those people need to eat, or at least to earn back their advances. And because as people who love literature and art, isn't it sort of our responsibility to support literature and art? By reading and seeing and watching and listening and thinking and discussing and attending and all of that, but also, you know, REALLY, with our hearts and our dollars? Shouldn't we always buy books, if we can afford it, in glorious, expensive hardcover, from the usually struggling and well-deserving indie bookstores in our neighborhoods?

Am I overthinking this?

I got two books from the library, I admit. One of the authors is dead, so I don't feel so bad. The other is not. But, but. I like libraries. They too are important institutions, and represent a democratization of knowledge that I acknowledge, support, and value. And the private lending library -- have I mentioned? -- has velvety sofas and antique stacks and distinguished looking busts (yes, go on and laugh, you and your dirty minds). On a recent visit, an old man with a stack of mystery novels was discussing, with the clerk, the superiority of Cary Grant. The overall effect was quite charming.