I had the oddest cool thing happen last night. I was reading A. Edward Newton's
The Book-Collecting Game. When I came to a picture of his library in his
home, Oak Knoll, I realized I had been there. Sort of. As far as I know, I've
never been to Oak Knoll (though as it's apparently near Philadelphia, it is quite
possible I've been close) but I recognized that library.
A few years
ago, the highlight of a trip to Philadelphia was a visit to th Rare Book
Collection of the Free Library of Philadelphia. At the very far end of that area
on the top floor in the middle of the city is a graceful, peaceful and intimate
old library that is a room from a private home. The windows look out on paintings
of a rural scene. The Librarian (ook!ook! -- um, sorry) told me that it was the
library of a man who had willed his fine collection to the Free Library and that
his widow and daughter decided that the room belonged with the books. SO they
donated the entire room, furniture and all, to be move and re-set up there. I
believe the Library uses it for gatherings of board members and such. And I seem
to recall now that the plaque outside the room proclaimed it the "A. Edward Newton
Library".
A very odd feeling. I have been in Louisa May Alcott's
house, have stood where Ben Franklin's house was, have stood in a hall a few feet
from where Jefferson wrote the Declaration and in another passage a fw feet from
where Walter Raleigh languished in durance not so vile, but in all those cases I
knew where I was and who had been there. It is oddly disorienting (or maybe oddly
orienting?) to find out later where you have been before.