This article is the first of FT Globetrotter’s new series on great world libraries and a part of our guide to London
Do you wish to hear the mating cry of male haddock in spawning season? Are you interested in oracle bones or sacred Sikh Janamsakhis, Georgian polyphony, Birmingham, sci-fi, Welsh? Would your day be enhanced by unfortunate academic hairstyles, nature-themed appliqué sweatshirts, man-skirts, extreme tweed? Might you even want to do a little work? Then cross, if you dare, the wind tunnel of Euston Road, between dubious pubs and someone shoeless shouting about Jesus. Enter the concourse, pass the Paolozzi statuary, the sternly friendly guards, the hidden ammonites. Don’t be afraid. Step inside the British Library: here is paradise.
History
When I was a child, every trip up the grubby A40 into London epitomised glamour. Then we’d pass a certain corner building site, the site of the future British Library, and my spirits would sink. Even I, a clueless hick, had heard of the architectural travesty concealed by those hoardings. How I pitied those poor books, being moved from the beautiful British Museum to this hideous, vaguely Japanese, red-brick barracks.
And now the red-brick barracks is my workplace, my pleasure dome: a haven for indoor children, a crucible of intellectual chaos. I’ve written several books there, wept, slept, been fortified. I would fight — please, let me fight — to the death to defend it, once I’ve smuggled my broadsword through the scanners.
