It's parents' weekend here at Harvard, and the yard is positively crawling with people - a sea-change from last week, when the gates were locked to keep out the Head of the Charles crowd. We're supposed to allow parents unfettered access to the Stacks, since after all "they're the ones who are paying," although the cantankerous bastard in me wants to tell them that if they want to see the Stacks so badly, they should go and apply to Harvard as students themselves. Harsh, I know. But it's funny. Parents are only excited at the thought of seeing the Stacks until they actually see them, at which point they realize that a hallway full of rows of identical looking bookshelves isn't nearly as exciting as they'd imagined. Unlike the marble colonnade of the foyer or the hardwoods and leather of the reading rooms, the beauty of a library's innards is not to be found in outward appearances but between the covers of each book. You have to linger, you have to sit awhile, you have to savor.

The Stacks don't make for a good Kodak moment, this is true, but isn't that a good thing?