I was born with a book in my hand, and for all I know, it was the only book on the South Side of Chicago. No one read, not even my parents, who belonged to a book club. Oh, they had a few old books around, but nothing a child would want to bother with.
There were no books in my school room, but the school had a “library,” where you weren’t even allowed to enter, much less actually borrow a book. Once a year, my class was taken down to the huge, high-ceilinged room for a lecture by the enormous librarian. Do you think she regaled us with warm recollections of stories by the great authors? No. She lectured us about the Dewey Decimal System.
Meanwhile, forbidden books tauntingly lined the shelves, guarded by glass cabinets. There was a public library, however, about three miles away, much too far for me to get to on my own. When I was a child, our family had no car, and when my parents finally acquired one, there was no thought of wasting gas to take me to the library and wait around while I wandered the aisles of treasures.