Spellwork, Jennifer Olson

I recently read Sarah Beth Durst’s The Enchanted Greenhouse, a romantasy novel—with a velvety purple cover and sprayed green pages—about a librarian who illegally uses spellwork to turn a spider plant into a friendly, sentient companion. As punishment, the emperor confiscates her creation and turns the lonely librarian into a statue. Frozen, solidified in a half-conscious state, she is left on display in the North Reading Room as an example of what happens to those who challenge authority in the pursuit of knowledge.

Now, writing this piece in one of the most iconic libraries in the world (think Ghostbusters), I marvel at the concrete: lions—nicknamed Patience and Fortitude by Mayor LaGuardia during the Great Depression—that were nearly bison (or beavers!); Vermont marble—65 percent of the quarried stone deemed too flawed for such grandeur—the walls, arches, and floors so unyielding that employees asked for rubber-soled shoes to soften the strain; the 4 million research volumes stored 30 feet beneath Bryant Park; the 125 miles of steel shelving; the stone plaque that reads: “Inscribed here are the words of an immigrant whose life was transformed by the library and whose estate now enriches it. In memory: Martin Radtke 1883 to 1973”; the vaulted plaster ceilings with sculpted roses and Michelangelo-worthy murals; the creaky chairs made from oak; the brass table lamps—and books—lots of books.

The library houses an array of treasures and curiosities: locks of hair from Charlotte Brontë, Mary & Percy Shelley, Walt Whitman, and Wild Bill Hickok; 45,000 food menus; Virginia Woolf’s walking stick; Charles Dickens’s desk and letter opener; Shakespeare’s First Folio; the Gutenberg Bible; George Washington’s farewell address—an original copy of the Bill of Rights.

Despite this wondrous trove, the library’s audio guide plainly states that this place was never meant to be the private residence of a king. Deemed “the People’s Palace,” the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building was inaugurated in 1911 by President Taft to meet the needs of all New Yorkers.

As Toni Morrison puts it, “Access to knowledge is the superb, the supreme act of truly great civilizations. Of all the institutions that purport to do this, free libraries stand virtually alone in accomplishing this mission.”

But what happens when our current leaders don’t value the public’s access to free knowledge? In March of 2025, President Trump issued an executive order to dismantle the Institute of Museum and Library Services, which provided over $266 million dollars in grants to museums and libraries—125,000 of them—across the country last year.

What happens if our “palace” and other “palaces” around the country are stripped of their treasures? We lose the concrete and the abstract.

We

lose

the

stacks.

We lose The Cat in the Hat, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. We lose our doorways into fantasy, and our escapes from harsh realities.

We lose spaces to play.

We lose children’s books, magazines in color, periodicals in black and white—are left—

in the grey.

We lose translation, manuscripts, language, our ability to discuss gray matters. White matter. Neuronal connections to each other and our forefathers.

We lose mystery, magical realism, suspense, thrillers, paranormal romances, poetry,

speculative fiction, science fiction, historical fiction, science, history, art history, biography, autobiography, memoir—self-help.

We lose fitness classes; nutrition classes; gardening workshops; writer and artist residencies; craft and DIY nights; local and oral history projects; e-books; interlibrary loans; summer reading programs; pet partner reading programs; coding and STEM programs; programs for digital literacy, financial literacy, and language literacy; workshops for voting registration, civics, job training, and resume-building; specialized services—mental health resources.

We lose “The Library of Things”: muffins tins, pasta makers, ice cream makers, fondue sets, chocolate fountains, sewing machines, 3D printers, laser cutters, LEGO robots, projectors, art easels, paint sets, pottery wheels, guitars, ukuleles, keyboards, boardgames, video games, bicycles, rollerblades, snow shoes, camping gear, fishing poles, power tools—seeds.

We lose a quiet space to think—the coveted desk by the window—respite from the hot and cold and noisy streets— the privilege to be annoyed by the thumping of computer keys and the crumpling of newspapers and the

“shhhhhhh”                        of grumpy librarians.

We lose artifacts, conservation, circulation, restoration, innovation—our connection to the truth:

the archive and free internet access (even if it is fake news).

….What am I leaving out?

Nineteen Minutes

Forever

Sold

This Book is Gay

Flamer

Tricks

Crank

Gender Queer

The Bluest Eye

All Boys Aren’t Blue

In case The Enchanted Greenhouse somehow arrives on your local library’s list of

banned books,

I will tell you how it ends.

The emperor is overthrown, and access to (harmless) magic is restored—no longer reserved for powerful sorcerers alone.

The novel feels like the cozy hug we might have taken for granted: as we are left—

navigating—liminal spaces.