The question set for our discussion is not new. It seems to be always with us. By itself, I do not think it of much importance. It only becomes so as related to the much larger question of the general purpose of the public library—what it is supposed to stand for in the community. All details of library policy revert to that, and the fiction question is, after all, a detail.
"The quality of fiction"—if I may paraphrase the words of a celebrated writer of it whose works still compete with the latest "best seller"—
"The quality of fiction is not strained.
It droppeth like the gentle rain from Heaven.
It is, perhaps, thrice blessed;
It blesseth him that writes, and him that prints and sometimes him that reads.
'Tis mightiest in the mighty and—"
But I refrain from going farther. Beyond that point we reach debatable ground and I shall add nothing to the sum of human knowledge in that direction.
When your President asked me to open this discussion, he was kind enough to imply that the time had arrived when representatives of the larger libraries, at least, might speak with conviction on this question. And I suppose I was selected for the reason that the library for which I am responsible has, through circumstances not entirely within its control, acquired a reputation for ultra-conservatism in respect to purchases of fiction; a reputation for which it is entitled to little praise, if the result be thought meritorious and for which it should not be blamed if the results are condemned.
For it is well, always, to choose the good rather than evil in any line of action; to choose it, that is, because you love it. But, if you don't love it, it is fortunate that in the general plan of nature the good so surrounds us and hems us in, to say nothing of the consequences which follow the choice of evil, that, in any case, we can scarcely escape the choice of good.
With us in Boston, and I take it the conditions are not dissimilar elsewhere, the practical considerations of providing shelf-room for new accessions, of keeping the catalog within reasonable limits, the adequate provision for new books in other departments of literature, the constant increase in our fixed charges due to the expansion of our work—these enforce the restriction of purchases of fiction within limits that may be deemed conservative, whether we particularly favor conservatism or not.
Therefore I speak with no pride of opinion based upon the policy of my own library, nor in criticism of the policy of others, nor with any hope of establishing a hard and fast rule. Criticism is frequently caustic and bitter. I would fain be persuasive and kindly. It is indeed my conviction that no invariable rule is possible on this matter or on other points of library policy. Certain principles hold, but the application of them must vary in different libraries, and must proceed in harmony with local environment. Any other course would result in a system, hard and mechanical, where it ought to be flexible, sympathetic and humane.
It is said that in some places it is necessary to placate public opinion by liberal purchases of light and harmless trifles, "bright and snappy" stories, "big heart-gripping" tales of the moment in order that the fountain whereon the library depends for its continued life may not run dry. If that be so, who am I that I should sit in the seat of the scornful, or pronounce judgment on my neighbor? Any librarian whose hand is thus forced has trouble enough without my adding to it with wild and whirling words. After all, such action is not without precedent—nay, we may go farther and say not without justification. Old Isaac Walton was not the first who angled successfully with a concealed hook, and he has his disciples in other than green pastures or beside still waters. But, speaking seriously, such bids for the popular approval that may result in enlarged appropriations have nothing to do with the quality of fiction, and carry no lesson for those in more fortunate circumstances, who are able to exercise a sane and untrammelled judgment.
Let us admit freely, that fiction as a branch of literature, is today important, not merely as a means of relaxation and amusement but of inspiration and instruction. Whether or not that admission implies that a public library ought to provide an undue quantity of it is a question of logic, and to be logical when sentiment will more effectively carry your point is today fatal in the discussion of more weighty matters than the one we are now considering. There is, indeed, a form of printed matter even more frequently used than the novel for relaxation and amusement. I allude to that required in the great game of Auction Bridge, and one may gain instruction, perhaps inspiration from that, but public libraries so far ignore it. Although it has been suggested that a moving-picture annex, freely used by some millions to the same ends, might be profitably taken on, and unquestionably the suggestion has much to recommend it. At all events, that time may not be wasted in profitless controversy, I grant, at the outset, all that the most ardent advocates of fiction claim in its behalf.