There was a time when the public library was a sanctuary of silence. A refuge for readers, writers, thinkers, and the occasional soul seeking shelter from the noise of the world. A temple where whispers were the only language, and the creak of a chair or the shuffle of a page-turn could draw glances. Respectful, focused, almost reverent. Remember that? Now the library feels more like a cross between a rec center and a coffee shop, with the volume cranked up.
Look, I’m all for libraries evolving. Today’s libraries are supposed to be community hubs and accessible to everyone. They’re not just about books anymore—they host workshops, craft corners, movie nights, and kids’ reading circles. Great. But can we draw the line somewhere? Somewhere before it becomes a glorified daycare with screaming toddlers, sing-alongs, and a PA system that sounds like it belongs at a hockey rink?
And here’s the part that gets me. The loudest people in the entire building? The librarians. That’s right. The same folks who used to glare over the rim of their glasses if you dared to unzip your backpack too briskly are now hollering across the room to their co-worker about when to take their lunch break, or slamming books down on the cart. Or recounting their weekend plans while straightening the shelves, at full conversational volume. Meanwhile, some poor teenagers get shushed for watching a TikTok with the volume on low. The irony is rich.
I often work from the library because the Wi-Fi is outstanding. I live in a small town, so the home WiFi can sometimes be iffy. The library is one of the few quiet public spaces that don’t require buying a $6 latte to use the Wi-Fi. Or at least, that’s the theory. The reality is that “quiet” is now relative. A concept. A myth passed down from elders who once studied for exams in libraries where silence was sacred. Today, the “quiet area” sign, if one is posted, might as well be printed in invisible ink.
To be clear, I’m not blaming the kids. They’re kids. If you build a Lego table, put out finger puppets, and run a scavenger hunt at 11 a.m., they will act like it’s recess. They’re doing exactly what they’re told: having fun. But don’t call it a library space anymore. Call it what it is—an indoor playground with the occasional copy of Charlotte’s Web on a nearby shelf.
But librarians? Come on. You should know better. You are the last line of defense for those trying to focus, write, read, or think. You can’t shout across the room like you’re at a backyard barbecue and then pivot into “Excuse me, please lower your voice” mode when a patron answers a phone call. That’s not leadership; that’s hypocrisy.
It’s not about being a curmudgeon. It’s about respecting the core function of what a library is still supposed to be, at least in part. If everything is noise, where do people go to find silence outside of nature? If the library isn’t a quiet place anymore, what is?
So here’s a modest proposal: designate and enforce real quiet zones. Not performatively. Not selectively. Actually enforce them. And maybe install some doors to keep the kiddie chaos in the children’s wing where it belongs. And please, librarians of the world—lead by example. Use your inside voice. Or better yet, use your library voice and don’t slam cupboards when looking for something. Some of us are just trying to write something worthwhile over here.
John Berkovich Talks 