The New York Public Library

One's opening lines are always indicative of what one thinks of the character of an institution. For me, The New York Public Library is much more than a cultural institution; I consider libraries to be among the central educational resources of any civilization, including ours, which is why, in 1981, when I first addressed the staff of the Library as their new president, [1] I called them "my fellow educators." Walking into the Library that morning I had thought about the important role that libraries had played in my life and about my respect for librarians, not simply as keepers of books and collections of materials but as true disseminators—even champions—of knowledge. Along with teachers and other public servants, they are modest, unsung civic heroes, who day after day, year after year, answer questions, provide guidance along the pathways of research and literature, and catalogue, organize and analyze information, turning what might seem like ordinary tasks into something sublime.

I have always been in awe of libraries and have been in love with books since I was a child. Later, I became a regular habitué of bookstores particularly those that sell used books, an addiction that I know I share with many people around the world for whom prowling the aisles of a used bookstore is something close to going on a great treasure hunt.

When I arrived at The New York Public Library from the University of Pennsylvania, where I had served in both academic and administrative positions from 1972 until 1981, I was no stranger to libraries. After all, as an undergraduate and graduate student at Stanford University, I had more or less lived in the library as I pursued my education, which focused on history and the humanities. In subsequent years, as my interests widened to include fields such as European intellectual history, the history of the Middle East and of the modern Caucasus, not to mention Afghanistan, my appreciation for the scope, range and richness of library collections grew. When I became dean of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences at the University of Pennsylvania, the university libraries became a much-beloved responsibility for me, as my concern was not only the quality and breadth of material and services they offered but ensuring their future, as well.

As to the many subjects I studied over the years, while I felt that I was caught between dilettantism and expertise, my unwavering interest in each and all of them made libraries a natural habitat for someone like me. The New York Public Library provided a nearly perfect home replete with seemingly endless opportunities to satisfy my intellectual curiosity. At the same time, I came to appreciate the obvious differences between the world of the university, which I had just left, and the world of libraries. To begin with, no one can graduate from a library. There are no entrance or exit exams. Individuals come and go, doing their work, their research, or just reading for pleasure. It was fascinating for me to walk through the Library and see all the different individuals who used the different collections— it was like having a window onto a true microcosm of humanity. People of different ages, genders, races, appearance and dress took up almost every chair in the Library or were bent over a book, a document or other material at almost every table.

Unlike universities, whose constituents are finite, The New York Public Library's constituents were, potentially, everybody. The Library did not have any specific or particular groups or individuals as its clientele: those who used the Library's facilities were an ever-changing cross-section of humanity who came from the city, from all across the country as well as from many foreign nations. In that connection, one of the many features of the Research Library that I found extraordinary was that one did not have to produce scholarly credentials, identification, or show citizenship status in order to read a book or an article, or see a photograph or some other item. It was anyone's right to look at and learn from the Library's materials. Even noncitizens had this same right because, when you walked into the Library, nobody asked your status in terms of American citizenship, occupation, or residency. Just the fact that you showed up at the front door gave you the right to use the Library and all its resources and connections to the rest of the world.

The Library universalized everybody. By that I mean it served as a bridge between the individual and anything they wanted or needed to know about anything under the sun—or beyond it—that human beings had written, dreamed of or speculated about. I thought about that notion even more than I had in the past after the Library's card catalogue was computerized because I realized, then, that whether a person was in the Main Research Library on 42^nd Street or at any local branch library, they could look for material in any one of the many different collections throughout the system and find it with ease. In fact, computerization allowed someone in search of information to peruse not only the Library's research collections (which today number more than 40 million items including books, maps, audio recordings, films, videotapes, CDs, DVDs, sheet music, prints, clippings and materials for the blind [2] ) but also to gain access to the collections of other libraries across the globe. In many ways, the Library enabled those who used it to transcend the limitations of shelves and walls, of geography, of even space and time. It served as a bridge to the whole world, and provided a link to the past and a pathway to the future.

I was curious about the historical role and legacy of the library and was delighted to learn such interesting vignettes as the fact that, in their youth, the actor James Cagney, former New York Community Trust president Herbert B. West and novelist Cynthia Ozick all served as Library pages. They were paid very little but the value of their exposure to the vast resources of the Library far outweighed their meager pay. When he was young, the late New York Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan spent his Saturday afternoons shining shoes on 42^nd Street and afterwards, would make his way to the Library's Main Reading Room. "It was the first time I was taught that I was welcome in a place of education and learning,'' he said. "I would go into that great marble palace and I would check my shoeshine box. A gentleman in a brown cotton jacket would take it as if I'd passed over an umbrella and a bowler hat.'' [3]

Because the Library had so many grateful beneficiaries, I knew we did not have to rely only on our talented public affairs and development officers to tell the Library's story. Others did. Individuals such as Senator Moynihan told it for us, and told it frequently, to all kinds of audiences. From time to time, though, I did hear particularly special or unusual tales about how the Library had influenced lives and events. For instance, early in the twentieth century, Pan American Airways sent researchers to the Library to help seek out routes to the Far East. Edwin Land did scientific research leading to his invention of instant photography in what is now The New York Public Library's Science, Industry and Business Division. Law firms were heavy users of the Patents and Trademarks collection, one of the largest in the United States. The Library's famous picture collection (which today includes an online database of over 30,000 images from books, magazines and newspapers as well as 450,000 digitized images from primary sources and printed rarities including illuminated manuscripts, historical maps, vintage posters, rare prints and photographs, illustrated books and printed ephemera), was, and is still extensively used by those in the advertising, fashion and design fields, not to mention architects, interior decorators and others. Notable users included the actress Grace Kelly, who read about Victorian furniture, and Norbert Pearlroth, who did much of the research for Robert Ripley's syndicated Believe It or Not newspaper series. [4] , [5]Even Leon Trotsky spent some time at the Library during the few months in 1917 that he lived in New York City.

What also struck me as being particularly unique about the Library was that, as one of the cultural and intellectual centers of New York, it helped the city serve as the "capital" of many diasporas. I was, for example, astonished to find out that New York had around 300 ethnic publications that serve a tapestry of ethnic communities which, in turn, serve as bridges to their countries of origin. The city's great library is itself an embodiment of all the diasporas that have brought people of every race and ethnic and national origin to our country. It is a microcosm of America in all its diversity, and its holdings reflect that fact. It is also a reflection of the city's cycling waves of immigration. One can imagine, for instance, that a demographer studying the city's population shifts over the past hundred years might look through the lens of The New York Public Library system, particularly its local branches, and find out how German-language materials were gradually replaced on the shelves by books, magazines and newspapers in a variety of East European languages and then by a plethora of media representing a veritable explosion of languages including Greek, Chinese, Vietnamese, Spanish, Hindi, Russian, Japanese, Arabic, etc. For immigrants, libraries can represent both an anchor to the country and the culture they left behind and their first stable footing in their new land.

Let me illustrate this point by using as an example The New York Public Library's Dorot Jewish Division, a major collection that I found to be an extraordinarily "ecumenical" place where orthodox, conservative, reform, radical and atheist Jews—and even non-Jews—met, forgetting their differences because they were in the presence of a common cultural heritage. Over the years, the Dorot Division has also served some notable readers and researchers: Bob Dylan used the Jewish division to explore possible Jewish origins of Indians in the Southwestern United States. In the early part of the century, when the library was home to immigrant scholars and writers, Isaac Bashevis Singer read Yiddish and Hebrew books there for his weekly column for the Jewish Daily Forward. [6]

The same intensity of work, research and study could be found in many other parts of the Library, such as the Asian and Middle Eastern Division and the Slavic and Baltic Division, where a multitude of scholars from different ethnic backgrounds, with different ideologies and outlooks, poured over precious documents, intent on deciphering secrets about ancient military conflicts, resolving literary questions, retracing the progress of the Bolshevik Revolution, investigating the Stalinist period, the Russian avant-garde movement and Cold War intrigues. Peeking into these rooms, one saw great concentration on the face of every person, each one studying the special book, article or letter that would solve some mystery for them, prove a point or just satisfy their curiosity. In these rooms, one also felt the immeasurable depth and presence of human history in all its variations and dimensions, and with all its tragedies, triumphs and mysteries.

Another arm of the Library that was—and remains—a great source of pride to both the city and the Library is the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, a national research library devoted to collecting, preserving and providing access to resources documenting the experiences of peoples of African descent throughout the world. The Center's original materials came from the personal collection of the distinguished Puerto Rican-born black scholar and bibliophile, Arturo Alfonso Schomburg. In 1926, the Schomburg Center gained international prominence when its resources were combined with the Division of Negro Literature, History and Prints, which opened on January 14, 1905, in a library building on 135^th Street in Manhattan, constructed with funds donated by Andrew Carnegie. (In 1951, the branch library, now on 136 ^th Street, was renamed for poet Countee Cullen, an important figure of the Harlem Renaissance.) Today, the Schomburg Center contains over 5,000,000 items and provides services and programs for constituents from the United States and abroad.

But of course the Library is more than the sum of its magnificent parts: it is also a living, breathing institution, always busy, always working, always alive. For me, one exciting bonus that came with being at the Library was meeting people I had only read or heard about, particularly writers. The Library had special rooms for writers, such as the Wertheim Study and the Frederick Lewis Allen Room, an intimate, book-lined sanctuary that has provided workspace for writers such as Robert Caro, who wrote much of The Power Broker [7] there. "I am only one of a thousand—or ten thousand—writers for whom the Library has always been there when we needed it," Caro has said. [8] Many other writers have also noted their debt to The New York Public Library: E. L. Doctorow, Norman Mailer, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Elizabeth Bishop, Barbara Tuchman, Rachel Carson, Arthur Schlesinger, John Updike, Betty Friedan, Theodore H. White, and Mary Gordon who said, "It's like walking into a cathedral...It's a place that represents peace and security. It reminds me that what I do in the world is a valuable and important thing to do.'' Alfred Kazin, who researched his first book there in the 1930s, immortalized the Library in his book, New York Jew. [9] "Whenever I was free to read,'' he wrote, "the great library seemed free to receive me.'' [10]

The Library also welcomed academics of all stripes, including independent scholars and eminent professors from all over the world, as well as the vast spectrum of colleges and universities in the New York metropolitan area. One special relationship in this category is with the Graduate Center of the City University of New York, which houses the elite Ph.D. programs of the entire City University system. It was originally located right across the street on Fifth Avenue so that The New York Public Library could serve as its library. [11]

For me, as well as for everyone else working in the Library, it was exhilarating to see the multitude of users coming through the doors and the level of activity taking place in every room, on every floor during every hour that the Library was open. So much learning, so much education, so much knowledge and scholarship being absorbed, created, and passed along. One felt a tremendous responsibility to the institution and to those who used and loved it—as well as to those who were yet to discover the richness of the resources within its walls—but also saw great opportunities to be a "good ancestor" to those who would follow after by strengthening the Library and increasing its ability to serve the citizens of the city and the nation, as well.

A Democratic Institution

From the first day I walked into the Library as its president, it was clear to me that the 42^nd Street building was not just a repository of books and collections but that its history, [12] its purpose, the way it operated and the diverse populations it served all went into endowing it with the majesty of a great civic monument that was a living, working symbol of American democracy. The Library bore witness to the openness of our nation, of New York, and of our society. It was, and always had been, a place where the social elite and the general populace met as equals and had equal access to the treasures within. In the presence of the Library's vast storehouse of knowledge, all could be equally humbled by what they did not know and equally elevated by what they could learn—and everything they could learn was theirs, for free.

Institutions such as The New York Public Library, however, are only free because people have decided to subsidize the library's operations by contributing to it as taxpayers and as individual benefactors. But even if costs are met one year, they are sure to rise the next, so new ways of generating funding for the Library was a constant challenge. Many innovations, including all the new technologies that were implemented at the Library, certainly enhanced service to the institution's users but did not save money. In fact, they usually increased costs because they required new staff expertise, new technicians, new computer hardware and other equipment, new software, etc. And it wasn't just the four research centers in Manhattan [13] that had to be supported but also the 85 branches in the Bronx, Manhattan and Staten Island. (New York City's other boroughs, Queens and Brooklyn, each have separate library systems.)

Each of the research centers and all of the branches were always striving to serve not only their "regular" users but also new ones who came through the doors every day, which meant that while the Library was still a rich resource for immigrants trying to bridge the gap between their experiences in the United States and their country of origin, there were now additional newcomers to serve. Different branch libraries in different communities throughout the city found themselves with patrons who had emigrated from such a variety of places as Asia, Africa, Central Europe, Latin America and the many countries and regions that had once been part of the Soviet Union. And because the branch libraries were integral to the community, pivotal to the acculturation process for newcomers, after-school havens for eager students, and lynchpins of local cultural and social events, when people walked through the doors of the libraries in their communities they found much more than books. The libraries provided English-as-a-second-language classes, children's programs, computer training, as well as introductory courses on genealogy, typing, map reading, stocks and mutual funds, patents and trademarks, and much more. In that connection, it is important to note that for some immigrants who may not have had the opportunity to receive much education in their homeland and were now struggling, as well, to get by in a completely new environment, the Library provided a dignified and respectful place to study. For some people who might be embarrassed to reveal their lack of education, it's easier to say to others that "I'm going to the library," rather than admit the need to go to literacy classes. Particularly for those individuals who personally, or culturally, felt it important to "save face" in this manner, the Library offered a safe haven to learn on their own.

It's important to remember that even today, libraries across the nation continue to play this role. And perhaps their contributions are even more central to acculturation now that our nation is experiencing the largest immigrant and refugee resettlement since the Industrial Revolution. Cities up and down the East and West coasts, across the Great Plains and all across the South—rather than just the gateway cities of the past such as New York and Los Angeles—are the new, nontraditional settling grounds where foreign-born newcomers find jobs, housing, and affordable prices. In each of these places, where both new immigrants and long-time citizens—schoolchildren and adults alike—may not have the ability to buy laptops and home computers or to pay cell phone bills or purchase iPods on which to download news and information, libraries are still the common ground where, as Andrew Carnegie said, democracy and learning intertwine.

In essence, the research libraries and all the circulating branches were the most democratic of institutions, open and available to all who wanted to use them. The libraries were also constantly seeking new ways to serve their publics—which were, and are, just about everyone. That was among the reasons why, when choosing Trustees for The New York Public Library, the possibilities were endless because serving the Library meant demonstrating appreciation and loyalty not only to the City of New York, but also to the nation as well as to the spirit of democracy.

The Library's Board was made up of people from all walks of life: writers, industrialists, socialites, business leaders, lawyers' all of them serving the Library without pay or any other material reward while also contributing to it financially.

Let me illustrate the uniquely democratic character of both the Library and its Trustees by focusing on three rare and remarkably civic-minded individuals who served on the Library's Board.

Mrs. Brooke Astor, the Library's Board Chair and later, Honorary Chair, was regarded by everyone as the doyenne of New York society. She also provided a living link to the Library's Astor [14] , Tilden and Lennox collections. The sophisticated, determined, gracious and generous Mrs. Astor made the Library not only a fashionable obligation on the part of New York high society but also a noble cause that transcended class and wealth. She set the standard for recognizing that The New York Public Library was not an institution to which one deigned to make charitable contributions but rather that it was a public trust deserving of investment by every philanthropist and philanthropic organization because it encompassed the entire spectrum of culture and education available in our nation. Through her foundation, she not only donated more than $24 million to the Library but got directly involved in other ways, such as visiting the branches, sitting with parents and grandparents and talking to them about their children, reading to children and chatting with the librarians. Just giving money was not enough for her, since noblesse oblige was not at all her style of philanthropy. Her philosophy was that she never gave money unless she visited whatever project or institution was the potential recipient and thoroughly acquainted herself with its mission, goals and accomplishments. Participation was essential to Mrs. Astor, as was, in the case of The New York Public Library, making it her personal responsibility to bear witness to its greatness. She was determined to send a message far and wide that the Library and its branches were there to educate, serve and enhance the lives of all individuals striving for wisdom and knowledge, and that they also had a special role to play in the lives of families and their children—those who would be the leaders of tomorrow—and hence, investing in the Library meant investing in the future.

Richard B. Salomon was, to the best of my knowledge, the first Jewish Chairman of the Board in the history of The New York Public Library, serving from 1977 to 1981. Known as "Charles of the Ritz" because he was the former chairman and chief executive of Lanvin-Charles of the Ritz, Inc., he launched many careers including those of Vidal Sassoon and Yves St. Laurent. He was a larger-than-life figure, credited with almost single-handedly "inventing" Madison Avenue in terms of groundbreaking packaging and marketing. In addition to his extraordinary leadership in the business world, he was a man with two great passions: Brown University and The New York Public Library. He loved the Library because it stood as a symbol of citizenship and opportunity and functioned as a great engine of democracy, personifying America's dedication to openness, freedom, and a world of opportunity.

Brooke Astor and Richard Salomon were a great combination, but there was a third actor who made this group into a powerful triumvirate working on behalf of the Library, and that was Andrew Heiskell, a giant in the publishing industry. When I first met him, he was the outgoing CEO of Time, Inc., a member of the Harvard Corporation and the incoming chairman of The New York Public Library's Board of Trustees. Born in Naples, Italy to American expatriate parents, he spent the first twenty years of his life leading a nomadic existence, with his mother and sister, a life that took them from hotel to hotel in Italy, France, Austria, Germany and Switzerland. Though he had occasional tutors, he didn't go to school until he was ten and he never graduated from college. He knew nothing about America when he arrived here at the age of twenty, at the height of the Depression, but ten years later he had become the publisher of Life, the most successful news magazine in the United States. For Andrew, duty, honor, service, country and humanity were permanent values. Unlike Brooke Astor and Richard Salomon, Andrew Heiskell was very outspoken. But what he did have in common with Astor and Salomon was that he cared deeply about The New York Public Library because it represented the freedom to learn, to become educated and to exploit the opportunities that life offers. All three individuals contributed their time, their energy, their imagination, their names and their fortunes to supporting and strengthening the Library.

A fourth leader of the Board soon emerged: Marshall Rose, who spearheaded the renovation of The New York Public Library and transformed the former B. Altman's department store on Fifth Avenue into the $100 million Science, Industry, and Business Library. In addition, a unique feature of The New York Public Library's Board of Trustees was that the cardinal of the Catholic Archdiocese of New York was an ex officio member of the Board. This was because in the early part of the century, The New York Public Library had acquired the libraries of the archdiocese, hence it was customary to have the cardinal on the Board. When I was president of the Library, Terence Cardinal Cook was a Trustee, lending his particular political clout to the Board, as did his successor, John Cardinal O'Connor. There were quite a number of other civic, cultural and business leaders, including representatives of the mayor, the comptroller, and the City Council who also served on the Board on an ex officio basis; their devotion to the Library was selfless and their efforts on its behalf boundless.

The New York Public Library also benefited from the professionalism and commitment of the directors, curators, librarians and staff who believed passionately in the institution [15] and from the efforts of the many able administrators in other departments such as Budget, Finance, and Public Affairs. In addition, there were scores of volunteers who worked at the Library with great joy and dedication. But perhaps most of all, it was the support of the public, both in New York itself and across the nation, that gave this great, democratic and constantly evolving institution the chance to face its future with confidence and energy.

However, when I came to the Library in 1981, its fate did not seem so well assured. In fact, as Andrew Heiskell so bluntly wrote in his book, Outsider, Insider: An Unlikely Success Story, [16] "The library was broke"— and it showed.

Support for "The People's Palace"

With so much goodwill directed toward the Library, why, then, was it in a state of decline in the 1960s and 1970s? Primarily, I think because it had been taken for granted; it was seen as a constant in New York, a fixture, rather than as an institution that had to be invested in as part of securing the city's future. Libraries, arts programs in the schools, the infrastructure of public buildings—these are always among the first targets of cost-savings measures when a city has to balance its budget, notwithstanding the real and often permanent damage this may do, not only to the programs and institutions, but to the people they serve. This was the case in the 1970s when New York City was going through a deep recession. It was shocking, really, and terribly sad to see how far into disrepair the Library had fallen in those years. At the time that I assumed the presidency, there was talk of bankruptcy, of selling some of the Library's collections, closing some branches or charging admission. Hours of operation had been scaled back; dust, grime and decay were winning the battle to destroy the beautiful marble and woodwork; books were being kept out of circulation because there wasn't the manpower to catalogue them; older volumes were crumbling to dust because funding for conservation measures wasn't available. Outside, the building looked shabby and neglected. Bryant Park, directly behind the Library, was a dark and derelict place, particularly unsafe at night. The rich holdings of the Library and the dedication of the librarians, their professionalism and their expertise were the main forces keeping the Library an ongoing, viable, central institution.

Our first task at the Library was to reaffirm and highlight the centrality of The New York Public Library in the life of the city and of the nation. The message that the staff and Board and I, along with the Library's many supporters, were eager to get out was that the Library was not begging for help—it deserved not only to have its infrastructure restored and replenished and all its services reinstated, it also deserved a better and more secure future, because its well-being reflected the vibrance and sustainability of the city itself. If the Library was allowed to continue to decline, then the city would also be seen as moving backwards, as well. After all, the people of New York and all Americans were the real owners of the Library because it existed to serve them, to provide a great archive of knowledge and education open and free to all.

In regard to "getting the message out," one of the most important decisions we made at the Library was prompted by my belief—shared by the staff and the Board—that democracy and excellence are not mutually exclusive; in regard to the Library, that translated into a conviction that public institutions can have both high visibility and high standards. With that in mind, we set out to make the Library's cause everybody's cause, and we made that cause not simply about survival but about the quality of the Library's survival. It would not be enough simply to keep the doors open: those doors had to lead to the most thorough, wide-ranging and eclectic collection of knowledge and information—both probing deep into the past and poised on the cutting edge of tomorrow—that human beings were capable of amassing.

Furthermore, like all its sister libraries across the nation, the Library had to adapt to changing times by embracing and utilizing all the new technologies that were becoming available—which meant not only finding the money to provide the budget for these innovations but also effectively and smoothly incorporating them into the institution's daily operations. And in an age when individuals were testing out their newfound ability to access knowledge and information online, bypassing institutions such as the Library, we had to prove to the public that the Library had not become irrelevant; that it was, in fact, among the most modern and contemporary of institutions.

In that regard, we were proud to underscore another aspect of the Library's significance to an evolving society: its unwavering commitment to the rights of its users. The Library has always stood — as it stands today, along with the 117,000 other libraries in the United States including 9,000 public libraries — as a guardian of Americans' right of free inquiry and to the privacy of their searches for information. In fact, the protection of these rights has been codified by the American Library Association, which says in the Library Bill of Rights, "Books and other library resources should be provided for the interest and enlightenment of all people of the community the library serves. Materials should not be excluded because of the origin, background, or views of those contributing to their creation." Further, the Bill of Rights states, "Libraries should provide materials and information presenting all points of view on current and historical issues. Materials should not be proscribed or removed because of partisan or doctrinal disapproval." [17] The Council of the American Library Association has also reaffirmed the right of privacy, issuing a strong recommendation that libraries across the U.S. "Formally adopt a policy which specifically recognizes its circulation records and other records identifying the name of library users to be confidential in nature," and that they "Advise all librarians and library employees that such records shall not be made available to any agency of state, federal, or local government..." [18]

We went about our mission of telling the Library's story in many ways, illustrating how it affected the lives of children, immigrants, and "ordinary citizens," as well as the scholars, writers, scientists, artists, and all the others who would have been lost without this irreplaceable library. We also pointed out that, pre-Internet, The New York Public Library served as the morgue for many newspapers including The New York Times that did not have a back-issues archives open to the public. [19] We told publishers that we were one of their most important links to the public, because people who learn, through libraries, to love reading, are future buyers of books. And we told everybody who would listen that, as Andrew Carnegie said, the free library "is the cradle of democracy."

This was a message that resonated, that everyone seemed to understand. There was little doubt that the Library deserved the time, attention and financial contributions from everyone who could afford even the smallest measure of support. We could not have spread our message as far and wide as we did without the assistance of the media—newspapers, magazines, television stations—and especially, without the help of The New York Times, which took up the Library's cause in a big way. Indeed, at times it seemed there was so much coverage of the Library in the paper, with stories appearing almost daily, that Abe Rosenthal, the editor of the Times, complained to Arthur Gelb, the managing editor—not necessarily jokingly—that there must have been something wrong with the paper because a whole day had passed without the Times publishing a story about the Library. I should note here that Arthur Gelb did not have to prod the reporters, however: even the jaded and blasé New York press corps got caught up in the Library's struggle to reestablish itself as central to the life of the city and the nation. The New York Daily News, the New York Post, Time, Newsweek, Women's Wear Daily, even Rolling Stone, not to mention scores of fashion magazines and journals dealing with libraries, the arts, and culture, all featured positive, supportive features about the Library because it was their Library as much as anybody else's.

It wasn't just the press, or just wealthy and eminent individuals who came to the aid of the Library. A study by Independent Sector has revealed that, contrary to conventional wisdom, low-income people donate a disproportionately larger percentage of their income than do the wealthy, which comes as no surprise to me because I certainly found this to be the case in regard to the Library. One of the most moving donations that ever came over our transom was a Social Security check sent from the resident of a nursing home who enclosed a note that said, essentially, "I don't have much money, but this is my tribute to the Library." One of the most surprising gifts was from the person who left us one million dollars in his will because, he said, he didn't like the government and didn't want his money to end up with them. Over the years, at the annual public holiday party we held at the Library, I stood at the door along with Mrs. Astor, Andrew Heiskell, Richard Salomon and other Trustees to greet thousands of patrons—the citizens of New York, whom I called the true stockholders of The New York Public Library—and was greeted, in turn, with many envelopes holding small contributions and large checks. It was like people were attending a wedding, a bar mitzvah or a christening.

Writers were also important stockholders in the Library, so to extend "the right of ownership" to them we created the Literary Lions evening, which was really the handiwork of Richard Salomon and philanthropist and Estée Lauder Company executive Leonard Lauder. This was also a way to link "high society" to philanthropy since, in bringing writers and benefactors together, we made clear that the wealthy should consider it a privilege to host a table in honor of an author at an event celebrating the city's and nation's most important literary figures. The writers were clearly the celebrities at the event, and their star rose even higher by being included in the circle of Literary Lions. In fact, there were no speakers and no introductions at the Literary Lions dinners because, considering both the writers and society figures in the room, everybody was somebody. Instead, we had prominent actors and actresses read classic passages from prominent authors.

The event started out with twenty-one distinguished writers acting as hosts to twenty-one tables for dinner and the cost to benefactors was $10,000; it became such a success that we eventually raised the price to $25,000. The media coverage was so extensive that it brought forth many requests to underwrite the costs of the decorations, beverages and food as well as pressure from prominent individuals who were eager to sponsor a table.

One major outcome of the Literary Lions—an event that was later imitated throughout the country — was that the author and biographer Barbara Goldsmith helped to establish a preservation laboratory at the Library (which now operates under the banner of the Barbara Goldsmith Conservation and Preservation Division) and galvanized the most influential writers of our time on behalf of a campaign for the use of acid-free paper to ensure that books last through the generations. Later, Goldsmith also became a Trustee of the Library.

The Library Trustees, staff and I were grateful, gratified, humbled and thrilled by how people rose to our cause and honored "The People's Palace," a term coined by some of us but popularized by Norman Mailer, among others. Still, there were times when some of my colleagues and I felt discouraged or weighed down by how challenging it was to meet the aspirations of the public and their many needs. On such occasions, my recommended remedy for that feeling was simply to walk into the Library's Main Reading Room, and the sight of hundreds of readers and researchers bent over the tables lit by Tiffany lamps, books and papers in hand, would provide a shot of instant adrenalin. Often, one could see several generations of one family—a grandparent, a parent and a child or two—reading and studying in the Library at the same time.

I don't mean to minimize the difficulties that we faced in turning around the fortunes of the Library, but to provide some context for the contrast between the wonderful, hopeful days we all experienced and the difficult ones, too. Dealing with the public sector, for example, was extremely taxing. Government on every level is confronted by so many needs, from so many quarters, that it was difficult to show how the Library—no matter how deserving it was—could be seen as more worthy of support than so many other institutions, organizations and individuals, many of those in dire straits. Still, we did try to make our case by giving hours of testimony before the City Council, the Board of Estimate and community boards. And then, of course, we went through the annual ritual we engaged in with the city government: first, the mayor would cut the Library's budget. Then, volunteers working on behalf of the Library would collect thousands of signatures from people in every borough demanding that the cuts be restored and present these petitions to City Hall. Finally, the City Council would put back into the budget the money that the Mayor had removed. It was a brutal process but gratifying, in the end, because it was clear to the city's officials that those who loved our Library were also voters, and attention had to be paid to how they thought the city's resources should be apportioned.

Still, I learned an important lesson from participating in "funding battles" with the city. Because New York City, as I noted earlier, actually has three separate library systems; if we competed against each other for funding, we all lost. The best way to handle our different needs was to meet beforehand and settle any competitive problems that might exist among us in terms of funding needs so that we could present a unified front to the city once we entered into negotiations. We learned not to air any disagreements we might have had in public. I remember, once, even surprising city bureaucrats by declaring, "Give more money to Queens!" That kind of collegiality and solidarity gave all our requests for funding more authority.

In terms of funding, another important lesson to be learned was that while touting the economic benefit of maintaining institutions such as museums and libraries is a wonderful idea, pushing the economic end of the argument for the value of such institutions should not come at the expense of their intrinsic social, cultural and educational value. Economic rewards may indeed accrue to a city, state, or nation from having extraordinary public institutions, but they should not be counted on or be narrowly perceived as economic engines only. That is not the purpose for which they were created nor the ultimate goal that they should be striving for.

Additionally, I came to believe that, in terms of funding institutions such as the Library, while lump sum additions to budgets are fine, what is best is that financing be provided on the basis of a formula—the way that Social Security payments are determined, for example. Lump sums can be subtracted from at someone's whim or during periods of economic downturn. Formulas are faceless and enduring and often less subject to being tampered with.

All in all, the renaissance of The New York Public Library was a triumph of public-private partnership. Initially, the public sector thought they had given us what amounted to a hunting license by telling the Library that in order to get public funding, first we had to show them what kind of money we could raise from the private sector. Because we were so successful in raising private support, we transformed the city's hunting license into a compact between the city and our institution, showing that indeed, public funds spent to maintain and improve The New York Public Library would be matched many times over by private support, not only in the form of money but also by those who gave their collections to us to house at the Main Library on 42^nd Street and by those who contributed to the branch libraries around the city. During my tenure, through public and private generosity, we raised $327 million for the Library (not including more than $100 million in gifts-in-kind), but the amount of money wasn't nearly as significant as the fact that, in time, the entire engine of the city and its resources—government, corporations and citizens—was mobilized on behalf of the Library and committed to its future.

The Impact of Philanthropy

My years at the University of Pennsylvania had exposed me to the extraordinary breadth and range of American philanthropy, but heading The New York Public Library thrust me into the midst of intense and intimate encounters with individual philanthropists and philanthropic families, as well as with a number of the nation's major foundations. Interacting with those who were among the most prominent and committed philanthropists in the nation left a lasting impression on me in terms of the culture of New York City and America, which promotes not only the act but the duty of giving—along with the genuine joy of helping a cause that one deeply and profoundly believes in.

I used to say—and still deeply believe—that the only institutions capable of giving or guaranteeing some measure of earthly immortality are museums and libraries. Buildings do not last. Streets and the names given them don't last. Even cemeteries, which are meant to last, have an ephemeral quality—after all, few people visit them on a regular basis for any reason other than to mourn. In that connection, the documentary filmmaker Ken Burns has helped to popularize a favorite expression of mine—namely, that museums and libraries are the DNA of our civilization. They are the embodiment of the individual and collective memory of mankind, the record of human endeavor, open to all who wish to pass through their doors.

Based on these premises, we undertook a campaign that marshaled historical, moral, ethical, populist, idealistic and progressive arguments in support of the Library. Therefore, instead of seeing ourselves as supplicants for the Library, we viewed ourselves as promoting people's partnership with The New York Public Library. After all, supporting the Library was one of the few causes in our society that was both non-controversial and ecumenical at the same time. Being a supporter of the Library was, in a sense, being a supporter of history, of knowledge, of education, of culture and of learning and democracy. We were convinced that everyone would be in agreement about that. After all, even Lenin had praised The New York Public Library; in 1913, after reading the Library's first annual report, he wrote an editorial for Pravda in which he suggested that what Russia needed was a similar institution where citizens would have free access to information and knowledge...

Almost everyone we approached about supporting the Library responded with extraordinary generosity. There were members of families who have a legendary history of philanthropy, such as the Rockefellers, notably David and Laurence. And Mrs. Astor, of course, who provided support not only through her own personal philanthropy but also through the Vincent Astor Foundation. [20] Other philanthropic families whose members were major supporters of the Library included the Gottesman sisters, Joy, Celeste and Miriam and their spouses. They supported the Library through various Gottesman family foundations and funds, [21] as well as Irene Diamond who headed the Aaron Diamond Foundation after the death of her husband in 1984. [22] In addition, there were those who gave because of both a deep commitment to what they felt was their civic duty combined with a sense of gratitude for the opportunities that The New York Public Library had provided to them. These included the Wallace Foundation, which became faithful supporters of the Library, because DeWitt and Lila Wallace had used the Library's resources when they began condensing books and articles for Reader's Digest. In fact, the DeWitt Wallace Periodicals Room was restored to its turn-of-the-century glory with Wallace funding. Another example was Bill Blass, who became the first fashion designer to be named a Trustee of The New York Public Library. He began his association with the Library in 1984, when Richard Salomon invited him to help organize a Literary Lions fund-raising event. He later left the Library $10 million, one of the largest gifts it had ever received at that time. Blass said, "Growing up in a little town in Indiana during the Depression, books and the local library were an important part of my life. I'm a visual person; that's my profession, but books are my passion." [23]

Widened Horizons

In retrospect, my eight-and-a-half years as president of The New York Public Library broadened my outlook—as I'm sure it would have for anyone in a similar position'on education and connected me with America's national institutions, and with the world, in general, in a way that the years I had spent as a teacher and academic administrator in California, Texas and Pennsylvania [24] had not. My horizons were widened. Any sense of regional parochialism that may have lingered in my consciousness had now dissipated. After sailing forth into the vast ocean of social, cultural, political and educational life that is New York City, it was impossible to retain any sense of insularity or isolation, or to return to a smaller world or hold a smaller worldview. Over time, New York nationalized, even internationalized many individuals like me: as the oft-quoted saying goes, "The journey was just as important as the destination," and in my case, in terms of what I learned from my relationship with the Library—and my stewardship of that remarkable institution—that was certainly true.

In fact, I would say that in a sense I began to see America through the prism of my experiences at The New York Public Library. The swirl of political, social, cultural, ethnic and educational dynamics that I dealt with on a daily basis revealed America to me in all its complexity and diversity—through personal as well as institutional contacts—with such impact that I knew I would be forever affected by what I had been exposed to. Perhaps one of the most important lessons I learned was that, as an academic administrator, I had spent my time focusing on whatever issue or problem I had to deal with immediately, often without considering or even understanding the larger context that surrounded whatever the issue was. But the Library taught me to always keep my mind and my eyes open to everything, from small nuances to the big picture, and to keep learning as much as I could, because everything I learned had value.

While at the Library, my experiences were broadened by serving on the Boards of a number of nonprofits. I joined the Boards of only those nonprofits that I felt I could contribute to and that, in turn, would advance my learning process: I was eager to understand all I could about both the superstructure and the infrastructure of our society. I was especially interested in serving those nonprofit groups that interacted with local government so that I could get a real bird's-eye view of how state and municipal governments work. Of course, I also learned a great deal about how federal agencies such as the National Endowment for the Arts, the National Science Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities relate to and work with institutions such as the Library. In a sense, then, The New York Public Library proved to be the best real-world civic, political and institutional education I could have ever gotten, because at every level—city, state and federal—there were organizations or agencies that had an impact on how effective the Library could be on both a day-to-day and long-term basis, and to what extent it could carry out its mission.

By 1988, after more than eight years of intense work, I felt that the Library's renewal was on track by the measures of progress we had undertaken on its behalf. Its fund-raising efforts were a success; the Library had a great administrative team in place and a great Board of Trustees. Its relationships with the city, the state and federal agencies were exemplary and the Library's physical infrastructure had been restored. Thanks to Marshall Rose and Andrew Heiskell, even Bryant Park was in the process of being reborn as a safe and beautiful garden spot in the middle of the city that could be enjoyed by casual strollers, lunchtime diners and even used for major cultural and civic events.

Much had been accomplished. We had made the revitalization and restoration of the Library a model for libraries across the country. As I reflected on all this, I recalled a saying that was then in circulation: "When you are on a journey and you reach the station called Success, get off."

I felt that at the Library, we had reached that station. It was time to move on. I received the concurrence and approval of the Board for my decision, and we worked together to pave the way for transition. Under the leadership of Elizabeth Rohatyn, Marshall Rose and Samuel Butler, the Library was strong enough to attract new leaders, first the late Father Timothy Healy and later, Paul LeClerc. [25]

Elsewhere, [26] I have discussed the opportunities and challenges that I faced in moving ahead. Naturally, when one had been the president of any major national institution—in my case, The New York Public Library—one faces serious problems when seeking a new career. In particular, in this age of leaks and gossip, when confidentiality and privacy seem to have lost any meaning, it is important to be very careful about reacting to job "offers" where one's name has really just been speculated about to fill a particular position. One does not want to be perceived as having been "turned down" for job or to have been considering an offer that was subsequently withdrawn. This has nothing at all to do with ego or self-protection but with the reputation of the institution one is leaving; its former or soon-to-be-former president must not be perceived as somehow being a lesser light than any other candidate for a new post. If an institution is not serious about a job offer or signals that "the fit" is not right, the candidate should be given ample opportunity to withdraw his or her name. Otherwise, one's position in one's institution becomes untenable, not to mention the danger to one's reputation. In my case, my candidacy for new positions was put forward by others, which is my recommendation for how to proceed in such instances. That way, if a particular position is not offered, it is the individual proposing the candidate who, in effect, is turned down, not the candidate him/herself.

I was eager to return to academia and to teaching. I felt that I had a renewed sense of purpose: I wanted to participate in helping to prepare the next generation of American leaders. In that connection, three outstanding opportunities arose: the presidency of the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation as well as the presidencies of two great universities — one public and one private: the University of Michigan and Brown University. Having spent over eight years as the president of The New York Public Library, I was leaning toward another major public institution —the University of Michigan, with its three campuses: Ann Arbor, Flint and Dearborn.

Since I did yearn to teach, the choice was between the two universities, but I agonized over which to choose. I engaged in an intense debate with myself. In regard to the University of Michigan, it seemed to me that the land-grant institutions were gradually being transformed into "semi-public" universities. For example, in the late 1980s, less than fifty percent of the university's funding came from the state. Federal dollars, philanthropic gifts, alumni giving and steep tuition fees had helped the University of Michigan become a formidable public/private university. What was at stake, I thought, was to see how much of the "public" component could be preserved in this public university. I was honored to learn that according to the search committee's opinion, my experience at the University of Pennsylvania, but more importantly, at The New York Public Library, had given me the credentials to be a defender of the rights of public institutions and I was eager to do so. The University of Michigan faced tremendous challenges, and when they offered me the presidency, I was excited and ready to take them on.

As for Brown, the third oldest college in New England and the seventh oldest in the U.S., it, too, faced enormous challenges: it had the lowest endowment in the Ivy League, was roughly the size of the Faculty of the Arts and Sciences at the University of Pennsylvania, and was struggling to maintain a proper balance between its undergraduate and graduate programs, its academics and its athletics, and the preservation of a historic campus while meeting the needs for renovation and modernization. Those who advised me to accept the Brown presidency, including Richard Salomon, who was chancellor of the university, believed that I could help to take Brown to the next level of excellence. For that reason, as well as other professional and personal family considerations, I made the decision to accept the presidency of Brown University. [27] Over the next nine years, I had a chance to see if my decision was right.