When I was in Glasgow last month for a Creative Scotland meeting, I had an hour spare before it started, and took the chance to have a wander, and survey the present state of the ‘Merchant City’. It was quite inspiring to see the restoration of so many buildings that, in my youth, had seemed derelict, or very nearly so: the Briggait, now WASPS’s fine new HQ; the elegant church of St Andrews in the Square, now a great music venue; even the little Georgian box of St Andrews by the Green, from which, back in 1979, I had helped to salvage some of the original fittings. I had even spent the night before in a hotel based in one of the 18th century town houses of the Tobacco Lords. Glasgow is still a great architectural city, despite the worst efforts of planners, Councils, developers—and universities.

Dennistoun Library (© Scottish Libraries)

Dennistoun, where I grew up, was a microcosm of that quality, a square mile of fine buildings in the City’s East End, from grand mansions that would have graced a Hammer Horror movie, through sturdy semi-detached villas such as the one I grew up in, to elegant neo-Georgian terraces, and finally classic red sandstone Edwardian tenements, complete with ‘wally’ closes. And Dennistoun seemed to have a church in almost every street, encompassing every architectural style from Romanesque and Gothic to Scots Baronial and Art Nouveau. Even the schools I attended, primary and secondary, were splendid examples of the efforts of the Glasgow School Board: light and airy classrooms, skylights, open halls surrounded by galleries. And the view from my bedroom included the graceful Italianate campanile of a sadly now-demolished church. It’s no wonder that my love of architecture started early.

But the architectural gem of Dennistoun was, and is, not a church but the Public Library, which, I now discover, was—by a large coincidence–designed by the Inverness architect, James R Rhind! For most of my childhood this was very much my home from home, which I would often visit two or three times a week. When I first started using it, the interior must have been little changed from when the library was built. So vivid are my memories of that old library that, 45 years on, I could draw a plan of the children’s section and mark where the Biggles books, or the Rosemary Sutcliffs, or the bound copies of ‘Knowledge’ magazine, were to be found. Especially, of course, the shelf where newly returned books were placed, the site of many near-riots to get hold of an unread ‘Tintin’!

In the mid 60s the library had a major makeover. Dark panelling and upright chairs were replaced by light wood, hessian, subdued lighting, and armchairs. Undoubtedly the new arrangement was more comfortable and welcoming, but I always missed the rather solemn grandeur of the original layout, which was undoubtedly more in keeping with the building’s grand façade. But then, by this time I had discovered a true palace of books, the Stirling’s Library in the city centre, housed in the magnificent splendour of the former Royal Exchange, and now the home of the Gallery of Modern Art. There I discovered a wealth of art and music books, and a huge range of foreign literature in translation. By the time I was sitting my O-levels I’d already read many of Thomas Mann’s novels, and, intrigued by the elegant twelve-volume format, the whole of Proust’s ‘A la Recherche’.

Later, of course, I would discover the wonders of University libraries, central and departmental, and then, when I started work in Inverness, and was commuting by car from Fife on a weekly basis, my lifeline was the terrific array of unabridged audio books on offer in our branch library in Anstruther. By comparison I found Highland libraries initially disappointing, but over the years the service has improved immensely, and I’m now a huge fan, especially of access to the entire catalogue on line. Library staff must be sick of hunting out books I’ve reserved from branches across the Highlands! Inverness library is just round the corner from our offices, which is very handy, but I also love visiting Beauly library at weekends, and, despite its bijou size, it always seems to have something I’ve been looking for, or, even better, something completely unexpected. I suppose, on average, I read (or listen to) four or five library books a month.

Now, across the UK, many, many libraries are under threat. Even at the height of the 70’s crisis, with power cuts, three-day weeks, and the army poised to put down civil unrest, no-one seriously suggested closing libraries to save money, and I remember thinking at the time that any such closures would mark the beginning of the end for a civilised society. Now, of course, there is the argument that the Internet has largely replaced the need for public libraries. No way, in my view. The Internet is great for answering quick questions, or taking a rapid survey of a topic. But it is useless for reading in depth. And that’s what we’re in danger of losing: the ability to absorb and explore themes and topics in all their rich complexity. Last week BBC4 showed a 90 minute documentary based on Robin Lane Fox’s book on the origins of Greek Mythology, ‘Travelling Heroes’. It was an enjoyable travelogue with a few interesting points, but Lane Fox’s arguments seemed very weak without the sheer weight and subtlety of evidence amassed in his book.

And, lest it seem like I’m making a hopelessly idealistic and academic case for the value of libraries, let me also argue that in the best genre fiction you can find a wealth of ideas and information about history, politics, world affairs, and the human condition. After all, Jean Plaidy’s novels still provide a far more accurate introduction to the world of Tudor power politics than that wretched TV drama full of anachronistic bodice-ripping.

Back in the 70s I began to amass a library of my own, and our joint collection now runs to some 4,000 volumes. I used to have at the back of my mind the apocalyptic notion that, when civil society finally fell apart, at least we’d have something to read. Now that nightmare scenario seems a little bit closer.

© Robert Livingston, 2010