Books? In a library? Are you kidding?

I was looking forward to the re-opening of the local library. It’s been closed for refurbishment since May, and been doing business out of the small junior library, which has space for only a small selection of books. But the main one has now re-opened, and I went in for a browse.

I am working on a history book of less than wholly serious import, and the history section of the public library here has furnished me with loads of anecdotal material, which is the only kind I’m interested in. But when I went into the redesigned library, the history section was peculiarly hard to find, as was virtually everything else. As usual, the redesign has taken the normal minimalist form; the old shelves against the walls have disappeared, and all that can be seen is a few smallish banks of shelves on wheels, for easy removal in case anyone is embarrassed by the presence of books in a library. You know, like those house makeover shows my wife likes to watch on TV: if you want to sell a house, they tell you, make sure all the walls are nice and bare, not a vestige of a book to be seen anywhere.

I found my beloved history section in the end: there were twelve shelves altogether. Nine of them were devoted to the two World Wars of the 20th century, and three to all the rest of history. That, of course, only leaves room for the most general stuff, and so I found.

I went to ask the librarian what had happened. She said “We wanted to create a more flexible space, for events and so on.” I pointed out that, flexible or not (we’d need Stephen Hawking to sort out that one) there was certainly a lot more space than there’d been before. What there was clearly a lot less of was, er, so to speak, not to put too fine a point on it, books. Yes, she agreed, the book count had been reduced by something like 30 per cent. Ah, I thought but didn’t say, well, so long as that makes more space for illiterate gorillas to do the hokey-cokey, that’s fine. I told her that I had probably better start looking for my history books in the local second-hand shops, and she did not demur.

One hears of this sort of thing everywhere. Is it the crying shame and bloody disgrace that I feel it is, or is it just that I’m pushing fifty? And can one, should one, fight back? In a democracy, should one not just accept that libraries must divest themselves of books because people are fonder of DVDs, schools must not bother with education because kids prefer video games, and the Reithian ideals of the BBC must prostrate themselves before the potty mouth of Jonathan Ross?

I’m inclined to try the road of resistance. And much good may it do me.