(The emphatic opinions voiced in this article are those of a small but articulate minority, and do not necessarily represent the views of the editors. The author, ensconced in the Church History stacks of the more congenial Widener Library, wrote the piece in longhand and submitted it on 732 pink charge slips.)

Words and Music by D. Royce, '53, '55 1/2, '56

A spectre is haunting the Yard--the spectre of Lamont. For five years, this stone and steel monolith has leered down at the pastoral Yard with its fearsome glass face, frightening freshmen on the way to their breakfasts. One of these years was my freshman year, yea, and more than once I felt queasy as I passed President Conant's crazy little lamp-post.

Consider the lamp-post, gentlemen. Is it the brave, fearless last representative of a style of architecture that once was, standing in front of that horrid edifice, beaming its disrespect at it like a staunch puppydog eyeing a newfangled fire-hydrant? No, it is not. It is a ruse, a front, a deception placed there by the administration to lead us away from the realization of the thunderous truth: that modern architecture, the creeping cancer of our industrial technology, has in fact captured a corner of the Harvard Yard, the nucleus of New World intellect, world shrine of ivied Victorian architecture. Don't let that little "old" lamp-post deceive you, don't let its tattered respectability hide from your eyes the hideous sore that rears scant yards away.

That lamp-post is not "old." It was erected just three year ago. It is said, if you should be listening, that President Conant had it placed there so he could see something that looked more than two days old when he threw open his window in the morning for his three deep ones.

Rotten to the Core

But beauty is only skin deep, and a step inside Lamont will confirm that. Walk up to the door--no, no one will push the door into you, it's all glass, and you can see for miles in every direction. Why, there's one little girl who sits right by the door behind a counter, aiming her taut cashmere sweater at you.

Inside, everything is mechanized. All books printed after 1880 are kept in the front office, behind a counter. They keep all the girls behind the counter, too. They have an elevator, but only the girls and the books can use it, not the people who use the library. Further contact with the exploiters may be had at Desk 3. When I was a freshman I asked some girl where Desk 2 was, and she said she didn't know, but they had milk and cookies there, and I wasted half the afternoon looking for it.

The exploiters have realized that they can keep most people happy with just one book at a time, and now they won't let you have any more. They wouldn't give you any, if they could get away with it. You have to sign your name, and if they can't read it, they give you a hard time, but if you print it, they ask you what the devil you're trying to get away with. You can take your little book and go sit in a manger, but you can't take it out of the building until it's too late to do anything much with it. But it's really not too bad--the men's rooms have ventilation, and you can get a breath of fresh air in there.

There's lots to do if your book isn't interesting. They have the Farnsworth room, which is an exact replica of a 19th century library, with all the old books and everything. But they have some Sinclair Lewis novels if you want to read the up-to-date stuff. Then they've got the Woodberry poetry room, with Swedish redwood panelling and three-thousand-dollar turntables four feet high. Of course nobody's interested in poetry much any more, but the boys from Humanities 130 slipped in some Burl Ives' records with obscene lyrics and zither accompaniment, and the place is really jumping now. They have the forum room, too; that's for football movies.

It may be true, then, that in the bowels of this crazy indirect-lighted monolith, one can relax, and forget the pressures of the Victorian reality that lies in waiting outside the big glass doors. Indeed, some of the hardier lads can even, I know not how, manage to catch a little sleep beneath the soft lights, amid the soothing rustle of encyclopedia pages.

At precisely 9:32 p.m., sometimes a few seconds later, the gentle tones of a battery of diesel locomotive horns waft among the grinding multitude, and a tall man strides through blowing taps between two blades of grass. He's pretty good. As you walk out the door a girl frisks you with her eyes, to see if you're stealing any books. They've got to be careful; one guy last year started sewing pages of Gibbon's Decline and Fall in his topcoat lining, and he had sent the first volume to the bindery and was half way through volume two before they got him. Pretty soon you're through the line, and it's your turn to be X-rayed. Sometimes it takes a while, but if you ask her for a date, she'll just smile and pat you with her tentacle, and you're free until morning.

Morning

Morning--don't mention that foul word to me. Morning. They can exploit us in the afternoon, they can suck our blood in the evening But when they charge us six bucks for skipping breakfast, that's when we wind up our yoyos and go on the warpath. Many times I've woke up with eyes on fire, a mouthful of hair, and the bedsheets giving me soft, lingering caresses every time I try to move a muscle. Even the clock seems sleepy after I throw it on the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. On the desk, which is bare and cleared for action, lies a little paper book which purports to discuss Science, Socialism and a Static Society. I knew it was worthless last night, but I felt so exploited I just had to get something out of the building. Now, too late, I see the sticker on the cover, Desk 3, and I know the cost of living has just gone up fifty cents an hour.

They Give You a Break

Oh sure, sometimes they give you a break, like the time last year I pulled in with an armload at twelve after nine. A break she gave me, yeah. I had to take her little sister out twice.

Let's say the Lincoln Tunnel makes a dime every time a car goes through. How much money do you think Lamont's front door makes every morning? And who gets it? Deserving young athletes? Oh, no. That blonde in the front office, my fines alone paid for all the furniture in her Beacon Street apartment.

What Are We Going to Do?

The only way out, aside from showing that we know what's going on by being surly to the librarians, is to take up botany or something that you can study in Widener. In Widener, the romance of learning is everywhere. Like the time I'm after Siamese 2185.16.342B.14 (John Foster Dulles, Friend or Foe?). Following directions to the letter, I find myself, after a maze of passages, in front of a little embroidered curtain in a recess between bookshelves. Drawing the curtain aside, I see a little red door, with a peephole in it. I knock, and the peephole peeps. After a moment, the door opens, and a beautiful oriental girl in a short-sleeved clinging white kimono asks me what I'm selling. Now, one of these occupational scholars would handle the situation all wrong; that's where my Lamont experience comes in handy. I just give her a little grin that could mean anything, and show her the slip. She gives me all the answer I want.

"Straight down the passage, second alcove on the left, climb the ladder, and then ask for directions again--it's easy from there." Then she slams the door in my face.