In a move that has sent shivers of bureaucratic delight through the veins of every minor official from Ottawa to Whitehall, the Haskell Free Library and Opera House – that grand, absurd monument to the notion that books might somehow transcend geopolitics – has announced a new policy requiring all patrons to enter through the Quebec side. This, they claim, is a 'necessary adjustment' to the post-COVID border regime. Necessary. As if a virus ever gave a damn about the Dewey Decimal System.
Let us pause to consider the sheer, glorious preposterousness of the situation. This library, which straddles the border between Stanstead, Quebec and Derby Line, Vermont, has long been a symbol of something vaguely noble: the idea that culture might, just might, be thicker than barbed wire. It has a line painted down its floor, a theatrical stage that crosses international boundaries, and a collection of books that presumably includes both 'The Hockey Sweater' and 'Moby-Dick' with equal reverence. But now, the great cosmic joke has been updated. The entrance is Canadian-only. Readers from the US must now trudge around to the other side, like supplicants at the gates of some northern literary El Dorado.
The UK, of course, has stepped in to champion cross-border cultural ties. Because nothing says 'cultural diplomacy' quite like a nation that recently had a minister describe the British Museum as 'a bit knackered' then launch a trade deal with Australia that mostly involved selling biscuits. The British government, with the solemnity of a man announcing the Queen's death while wearing a novelty fez, has declared its support for 'the importance of shared literary heritage.' This from a country that once burned the Library of Alexandria – metaphorically, I mean, via the destruction of the Birmingham Central Library’s brutalist architecture. But yes, by all means, let us champion the Haskell Free Library. It is a noble cause. About as noble as the UK's current policy of post-Brexit border checks on seed potatoes.
The border itself has become a theatre of the absurd. The line, which once represented a gentle administrative convenience, is now a chasm of rituals. You can stand in Vermont and watch a play in Quebec, but if you want to borrow a book on the subject of beaver pelts, you must first satisfy the demands of the Canada Border Services Agency. The officials will squint at your passport, ask about the purpose of your visit ('I wish to read a book, ma'am'), and perhaps confiscate your bag of crisps because they contain traces of something they can't pronounce. This is the new reality: literature as a form of international travel.
And yet, the library endures. It is a testament to the fact that humans will always find a way to make things complicated, then discover that the complexity itself becomes a form of art. The new policy is, in its own way, a masterpiece. It transforms the simple act of entering a building into a geopolitical statement. You are not borrowing a book; you are engaging in transboundary cultural exchange. You are not reading a magazine; you are participating in the great tradition of literary diplomacy. You are, in short, a tool of the state.
Meanwhile, the UK continues its proud tradition of championing things it doesn't fully understand. The government has offered to 'facilitate' the library's operations, which presumably means sending a delegation of minor civil servants to stand around looking confused while eating overpriced sandwiches. They will produce a report. The report will be filed. And the library will continue to be a place where, with the correct paperwork, you can read a book on either side of an imaginary line.
In the end, the Haskell Free Library is a mirror. It reflects our desperate need to impose order on chaos, to draw lines and then argue about them. It is a monument to bureaucracy, yes, but also to the strange, stubborn hope that culture might somehow survive the attentions of its protectors. So go. Enter from the Quebec side. Show your passport. Read a book. And remember: the line on the floor is just paint. The real border is in your mind. But you'll need a visa for that.
