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Twenty-five years later, having waited patiently at the bottom of a drawer, this
footnote slipped out of my files, climbed onto my desk, and weaseled its way into
the pages of my new novel. For in A Gentleman in Moscow, it is the main
characters oldest frienda devout member of the Party and conscientious lover
of literaturewho is instructed to expunge the offending sentence from the
collection of Chekhovs letters. And like so many of his countrymen, he finds
himself having to decide on the spot whether to compromise his integrity in a
tiny little way, or refuse to do so on principal and face the consequences.
In retrospect, what I find particularly pleasing about this little anecdote is that
when I went into the stacks that day, I wasnt looking for Chekhovs letters, at
all. I was actually looking for a collection of his short stories. But the beauty of a
library is that once weve identified the filing number of a specific volume, as we
go winding through the labyrinth of bookshelves, drawing closer and closer to our
prey, running our fingers along the bindings of the books, we are bound to
stumble upon something unexpected that piques our interest.
Many an observer would define a library as a place you go to get the book you
want; but that isnt quite right. A library is the place you go to get the book you
dont know you want. The book youre going to end up with is the one that
happens to be on the shelf just to the left of the one you came looking for; and
that book promises you an instance of unanticipated illumination.