As I’ve written about before, libraries were once considered sacred. Whisper-only zones. The quietest public space you could find outside a soundproof room. You came in, grabbed your books, or settled down at a table, and the unspoken agreement was simple: silence. Respect the space and others. Respect the idea that not everything in life has to sound like a company cafeteria at lunch hour. However, it appears that the agreement has expired.
Okay, this one is partly on me because I forgot my noise-cancelling headphones. Still, I was already gritting my teeth the other day because the librarians themselves—yes, the very people who are supposed to protect the quiet—were talking as if they were catching up over brunch. Forget hushed tones and leaning in. You know, like you’re supposed to do in a library. No, this was regular conversation volume, ten feet from me and bouncing off the walls. Meanwhile, I’m trying to work, surrounded by the exact same people who would tell me to lower my voice if I dared to answer a call or not wear my earbuds during a conference call. The irony practically wrote itself.
And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it happened.
A man walked into the library with a dog. Yes, a dog. Not a service dog, not a guide dog, not a dog with any visible vest or badge. Just a regular, everyday dog, padding along beside him like this was the park or his living room. I did a double-take. Surely, I thought, I must be imagining this. Surely the staff would step in. Surely there were rules, signs, something. Nope. He sat down with his dog. And, of course, because dogs do what dogs do, the animal started barking. Not yipping once, not a polite “ruff.” I mean barking loud enough that the very walls of this supposed sanctuary of silence rattled with every woof. I love dogs, but in a library? Come on!
I looked up, and our eyes met. And in that moment, I know my face said it all: You’ve got to be kidding me; what the hell are you doing? This is a library. I must have looked like I was about ready to climb over the table and toss him and his dog out myself, because he got the message. Without a word, he got up and left. And I sat there thinking, ‘What happened to reasoning?’ What happened to logical thinking, ‘If I bring a dog in here, what may happen, and am I even allowed to do so?’
I don’t bring my blender to the library. I don’t fire up a leaf blower next to the checkout desk. I don’t play music at ear-splitting volume. And I certainly don’t drag in a living, barking creature that has no business being there. Why? Because I respect the space and I understand the concept of a social contract. Because I know that my presence isn’t supposed to make everyone else’s experience worse.
But that is gone these days. Everything’s casual, everything’s “why not?” No boundaries, no rules, no common courtesy or common sense. People act like wherever they are is just another extension of their living room, and if anyone has a problem with it, well, that’s on them. The truth is, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. A barking dog in a library. Not a children’s story time, not a special event—just a regular day, with a regular guy, treating the library like a pet-friendly coffee shop.
So here’s my question: if the librarians can talk as loud as they want, kids don’t have to stick to the play area of the library but are allowed to run everywhere, while I’m reminded, with a sign, to use earbuds on video calls, and people can stroll in with their dogs, what’s next? Someone grilling hamburgers in the biography section? A guy flying a drone between the shelves? A rock band rehearsing for its next gig? At this rate, nothing would surprise me.
I miss the old days when you could count on a library for peace. When the only sounds were pages turning, pencils scratching, and the occasional polite cough. Now, the soundtrack includes loud, hypocritical librarians, out-of-control kids, and the sharp bark of a dog echoing down the stacks.
You can’t make this stuff up.
John Berkovich Talks 