But no.
My spirits lifted when I turned the corner and realized that "The Morgan" was actually a site I'd passed by several times, even had discussions about with friends in passing. I'd always been mystified by the squat townhouse on Madison, even went so far as to say, "that would be a cool place to live. I'd love to see the inside."
And then I got to see the inside. Found out it was part of a museum, home to a Morgan family heir. But beyond satisfying my itch for architectural intrigue I was impressed at the collections we saw, handled.
James, Poe, Allen. New York canons passed around the room like pamphlets. Being able to associate a handwriting from the pens of authors, true Americana, ephemeral letters not meant to be seen, studied. Insight into the private, an assurance that they too had lives, that they are not just books.
And the room, beautifully claustrophobic, the frame of the door melting into the wall at its close. Oaken panels carved, embossed in gold, told it was the music room. Said it was nearly soundproof, just in case an amateur was at the ivories.
I want to go back to view a more extensive collection, talk to the man with the friendly British accent, unroll more scrolls, trace more documents, smell papyrus and slide over Mylar. Library science, preservation, is being in a groaning old house. Hearing history through the cracks.
-Drew Henry, 2/11/08
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