VICTOR ZASLAVSKY
25
which , despite its name , was open only to scientific researchers . It
was not open to the man in the street either - a student pass was re–
quired . This was a real library with a large catalogue and specialized
reading rooms. Books could not be signed out-a great defect as the
number of students seeking admittance easily exceeded the number
of seats . One had to show up at seven o'clock in the morning and
queue for an hour and a half. Those who arrived later waited even
longer, until one of the early birds, done for the day, left a place.
After graduating I was finally granted the precious right to
study in the Central Public Library . A "research pass" for the main
reading room was required, and a university diploma was a prere–
quisite .
It
was the Olympus of libraries : millions of volumes, a
gigantic collection of manuscripts accumulating over the centuries,
even Voltaire's private book collection .
To avoid confusion, the readers were subdivided into three
categories . The first and certainly most numerous had the right of
access to "common reading rooms ." These were homey and quiet .
The walls supported heavy , prerevolutionary shelves, so that the
truly essential references were always at hand. The forty-five volumes
of Lenin's
Collected Works
(fourth edition)
in
brown covers went nicely
with the three score light brown volumes of Marx and Engels, while
the cool primness of the fifty-five blue volumes of Lenin's
Full Col–
lected Works
(fifth edition) harmonized well with three dozen more
assorted Lenin volumes in dull red . The modesty of the classics jibed
against the vanity of the rather temporary guests: the thick volumes
of current Politburo members' speeches with their fashionable glossy,
gold-stamped covers, looking
nouveau riche
and even opulently gang–
ster-like among the aristocracy of spirit. The common reading rooms
are chronically overcrowded ; the latecomers line the walls, marking
time by leafing through the
Manifesto
or
What Is to Be Done.
Reading rooms for professors and academicians are another
thing altogether. Although the same brown-blue volumes populate
the shelves and the tables are graced by the same green lampshades,
there is always space for more among the famous linguists and liter–
ature specialists. There sits Vladimir Propp, past victim of the anti–
cosmopolitan campaign, forever stiff with fear. Victor Shklovsky
steps in like an old wrestler, pushing through invisible opponents.
The common and professional reading rooms merge in the corri–
dors , the smoking room, and the marble staircase, where open–
mouthed graduate students peck at the crumbs of wisdom dropped
by their supervisors .
