When I wander through the stacks in the Ernst Mayr Library, I often marvel at the great wealth of knowledge upon which this university, and every place of learning, stands. The research that I have been pursuing these past years is built on networks of thought contained in this library. So many strands of thought are here, whispering quietly behind covers, waiting for a spark of consciousness to notice them and carry on the torch of reflection and discovery.
The enormity of our collective knowledge induces both awe and a kind of frenzy in me. It is an indescribable feeling, containing perhaps loss or sadness, to know that I cannot possibly begin to experience and use the entire network of knowing preserved in these pages. Not even within my own discipline. But do I really want to, anyways? How efficient it will be to let AI synthesize these vast networks for us. I imagine there could come a time when we never have to manually read anything ever again. What will we be like, then?
In this digital era, the floodgate of information and cheap brain candy conditions me to compulsively grasp at "everything, everywhere, all at once." My attention fractures and in the impossible and relentless pursuit of more, I retain little. My mind has grown accustomed to the digital extensions of our memory banks. I remember less and google more.
Those who move our collective achievement forward -- the heroes we admire, the thinkers to which we aspire -- they all chose to focus on some thing, not many things. Of course, there's endless, fascinating variation in how our minds work and what we end up pursuing. I'm not denying the existence of polymaths. But I suspect our humanity comes from the fact that we are poignantly limited. How beautiful it is, really, that we can only choose a very small number of things to devote our lives to. From many possibilities, we must pick something or be carried along a particular path.
Of all the books in the library, I will select a small fraction in my lifetime to hopefully read with my full attention. I must ignore the rest, and let their knowing whispers wait. A couple of weeks ago I visited the special collections in the Ernst Mayr and turned the pages of a book published in 1585 -- the Historiae animalium liber III by Conrad Gesner. It was written in Latin and Greek and contained intricate illustrations of birds. It had waited a long time for my hand to trace the ancient words on its open face. It is still waiting for a Greek and Latin scholar, or AI, but even though I do not understand the words, I understand its worth and love what it stands for.
A library is a sanctuary, built to house the physical manifestations of our thoughts as they evolve over years, centuries, and perhaps even epochs or eras. To be surrounded by books is to be surrounded by old friends who would never fail to lend a helping hand if we should ever need them. As social creatures starved for meaning, we'll always need these old friends. We'll always need to be with them, close enough to touch, to receive the wisdom written on their lined and windowed faces.
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