Posts filed under ‘academic libraries’
Under-desk shenanigan
At the University of Illinois at Chicago, staff discovered this diary and drawing written on the underside of a table in the Daley Library. It was probably written mostly in the spring of 1988; one entry (“Totaled my Dad’s car”) is dated May, 1988.
It’s likely this shenanigan would never have been discovered if the staff hadn’t decided to redecorate. When they dismantled the table, they found this bit of history.
Thanks, Gwen Gregory!
Books perform The Nutcracker at the University of Maryland
A fantastic holiday greeting from the University of Maryland library.
Thanks, Ed Vermue!
alone in the library
Did you know that librarians get up to shenanigans when they are alone in the library? Well, they do. Thanks, Iris Jastram!
You can sit “outside” in the Cornell library this week!
Cornell University’s Olin Library has temporarily installed a patch of grass.
Best shenanigan ever? I think possibly yes.
Thanks, Dina Wood!
things found in books, from dirty to sublime (or both)
Noel Black recently interviewed me for his Big Something radio show on the Colorado Springs NPR station. He got interested in the things found in books at the Colorado College library and asked me to talk about the collection the library keeps.
Some of the things we’ve found over the last decade were left in books deliberately as a sort of art shenanigan, we believe. Most, we are fairly certain, stayed in the books by accident. Library staff, especially student assistants, have been building the collection for about a decade.
I consider the collection itself to be a kind of shenanigan, since it’s unusual for a library to collect and display odds and ends such as these.
“Gangnam Style” at the University of Maryland library
With big shenanigans like this, involving hundreds of people, I always wonder how much the library staff was involved. Did they get advance warning? Did they give permission? Did they plant the idea for the shenanigan in the first place? The Facebook page for the event suggests the library at least wasn’t against it. I know we would be pretty psyched to have something like this happen at Tutt. Thank you, David M. Kay, M.L.S.!
book curse turned blessing
Our anonymous Oxford shenaniganner sends us another beauty:
Upon his death in 1715, William Brewster divided his substantial library between the Bodleian, Saint John’s College, Hereford Cathedral, and All Saints Parochial Library at Hereford. Among the nearly 300 chained books was the first Vernacular Livy (Venice: 1493) [pictured] which was left to All Saints. As with many books of the era, the Livius was graced with a book curse which remains just below the All Saints wood-engraved bookplate, reading:
“Qui libru[m] istu[m] furatu[r]
a domi[no] maledicat[ur]”
At some point in its history, some library patron had added his own Mediæval version of shenanigans, capitalising on the fact that the “a” in “maledicatur” had been left slightly open, and the “l” following it was left quite short, and hence, with three short penstrokes, the anathema which promised God’s wrath to whomsoever might dare pilfer the volume was made anew:
“Qui libru[m] istu[m] furatu[r]
a domi[no] benedicat[ur]”
promising that God would “speak kindly of” anyone who would steal this book.
For more information on book curses, try Marc Drogin’s Anathema!: Medieval Scribes and the History of Book Curses (1983), available at a library near you.
The Stapler Obituaries: a mini-exhibition at Tutt Library
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- stapler’s suicide note
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- stapler suicide
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- Stella
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- Stella’s lives
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- Lester “John Henry” Stapler
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- “They were just teeth…”
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- p. 2 of scientific paper
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- scientific paper on staplers and human aggression
Each year, at the printing stations of Colorado College’s Tutt Library, dozens of staplers die untimely deaths. Much wailing ensues. The mourners look to library staff for support during these difficult times. LeDreka Davis, our Circulation Operations Coordinator, has put together a fabulous mini-exhibition of stapler obituaries and other documents, including a scientific paper entitled “Evolutionary Basis of Stapler-Induced Human Aggression and Psychopathology.” Thanks, LeDreka and Tutt students and staff!
wingtips and squeaky toys
Wingtips. Photo provided by our anonymous Oxford shenaniganner.
Our anonymous Oxford alum sends us a second excellent shenanigan:
I’d nearly put this out of memory, but during the same period Doctor Quinn resolved to quiet the library (he’d have been aghast at the Half Naked Half Hour), and considerable effort was expended in the making of signs and in the consecration of so-called “Whisper Zones,” with (small) fines imposed upon those intent upon disregarding them. This coincided with the discovery of a Pet Supplier in nearby Faringdon, who kept on hand a vast selection of very small “squeaky toys” intended to be clipped to the cages of Budgies, for the amusement of the birds and the vexation of their owners.
The wing-tip was the choice of the day for young gentlemen (and remains so in some circles to this day), and new stiff leather wing-tips will, before being fully “broken in” oftimes issue forth a squeaking sound, as the fresh, smooth leather rubs with each step – a sound not at all unlike that produced by a small squeaky toy placed beneath the instep, and muffled by one’s argyles.
We The vile perpetrators made a concord to speak not a word within the confines of the library, but instead to walk about as much as possible, usually in brief shifts, sometimes as many as a dozen at once. The explanation, “new shoes” sufficed only a short time, and by the third day, new signs had appeared reading, “squeaking shoes must be removed when using the library.” Thereafter, rows of wing-tips with paper ownership labels tucked in lined the entry hall; “squeakers” were placed beneath the sock, and the campaign continued unabated.
On the fourth day (or perhaps the fifth day – memory is unclear these many years now removed) new signs proclaimed “Students must be barefooted to access library materials.” Undaunted, barefooted assemblages sat in mock misery, pocket squares at hand, blowing their noses with great fervour, each having taken a chill because of the draughts in the old building. The following day, the library, devoid of all signs, recaptured its previous hum of muffled voices, and the matter was considered closed by both factions.
library shenanigan, 1970s Oxford style
An anonymous shenaniniganner writes:
In the mid-nineteen seventies, at Finals, one of Oxford’s finest pranks (which truly means something, given past traditions) was perpetrated. At the time, Vincent Quinn was Master of the Balliol Library, and his pride and joy was an original sky blue Morris Mini drophead with split folding windscreens. The car was never seen in less than impeccable situation, and enjoyed a berth of expansive width in the park facing Broad Street to protect it from the evils of those who might park too close.
Not to be outdone by the parading of goats through Seny Hall, nor the wearing of Cat-In-The-Hat hats at the Snell Dinner, a group of Balliol’s finest and most intrepid – with the aid of a crane hire establishment – removed Doctor Quinn’s revered conveyance during the Finals Dinner to a new and glorious parking place, atop the Balliol Library, its front wheels perched upon the stone rail which surrounds the central tower above the fourth floor.
Christopher Hill, then Master of the College, made no inroads into any discovery of the masked perpetrators during the inquest which followed, as the crane hire had been paid for in cash, and the invoice signed, “Vincent Quinn.”
I hope it’s true! Thanks, anonymous shenaniganner. It’s too bad there’s no photographic evidence like that of a similar shenanigan at Cambridge in 1958. We must also bemoan the lack of documentation for Oxford’s “half-naked half-hour.”
Library Shenanigans 