British Library hush is broken by a row over reading room rules

  A fierce debate on the British Library's policy of admitting undergraduates is playing out on the pages of the London Review of Books. But should librarians throw out the 'intruders'?

The reading room at the British Library, whose decision to allow in students has drawn complaints

A debate about the British Library's policy on reading room passes currently playing out in the pages of the London Review of Books brings to mind a terrible joke my Dad used to tell:

An order of monks living under a vow of silence gathers together once every 10 years, when a single monk is allowed to speak. On one such occasion one says: "I don't like the soup." Ten years pass, the monks gather, and another replies: "I quite like the soup." A further 10 years pass, the monks meet again, and a third says: "Brothers forgive me, but I am leaving the order. I can't stand the arguing."

Perhaps it's the cathedral-like quality of the British Library or the stately progress of the LRB debate, progressing in fortnightly instalments on its letters page – far removed from the fast-moving world of Twitter hashtags and online comment threads.
It all began in April with Inigo Thomas's piece about his experience of the British Library, which decided back in 2004 to open its doors more widely, dropping the membership age from 21 to 18 to allow undergraduates in. Numbers swelled, and in 2012 the reading rooms in London and Yorkshire received more than half a million visits.

"Opposite me at the same oak and green leather desk are two students, both of whom are reading books, checking their BlackBerries and looking at their Apple and Acer computers. You wonder, how much more multi can tasking get? … And there's a phenomenon called 'noting', a form of anonymous flirting in the more popular reading rooms, Humanities I and II, or Hum One and Hum Two, as they're called. You're seen, then there's a note on your desk, you have no idea who did the noting."

The piece was enough to light the touchpaper of annoyance among that subset of UK readers who are both users of the British Library and subscribers to the LRB.
Two weeks later, on 23 May, James Obelkevich concurred, lamenting an open-plan design which allows the noise of scanners, telephones and fax machines in the service areas to "go straight out into the reading areas, causing constant distraction and irritation"

"It isn't a library that's kind to serious readers. Letting in undergraduates means that every spring the reading rooms are swamped with intruders who aren't doing research at all but merely swotting course textbooks before exams – and annoying readers (and library staff) with their adolescent antics."

Intruders! Steady on. Surely students swotting for exams are exactly the species you'd expect to find in the British Library? The British Library defended its current policy, saying: "While our reading rooms are sometimes very busy, particularly around Easter and other traditional peak times, we actively manage usage levels in advance of these periods and use various channels, including Twitter, @britishlibrary, to direct people to available seating."
On 6 June, Richard Davenport-Hines writes in to suggest that the likes of Obelkevich, "who deplore the current accessibility of the library to the young and eager … need to be reminded how unpleasant the old regime was". He recalls how in the 70s he was "grudgingly" issued with a new card, having been "subjected to close interrogation by a young librarian who hissed and snapped at me as he fought every inch of the way against allowing me into the British Library again".

"Obelkevich complains about bleeping scanners, trilling telephones and murmured conversations between readers and library staff. I have never been disturbed by any of these in the British Library, although I am occasionally distracted by the tut-tutting, indignant shushing and petulant slamming down of pencils by neurasthenics trying to enforce the silence of a padded cell."

In the same edition of the LRB, Obelkevich received a sympathetic response from Peter Cave, who said: "Some readers sniff their way through their researches and – worse – even use fingers as tissues, the fingers then turning the pages in mucous delight."
Eeww; now that's just getting grubby. Cave's disgust had seemed to put an end to the matter, until on 18 July this came in from Roger Morsley-Smith, recalling his experience pre-2004 of applying for a reader pass:

"The application form was awkward: I was not preparing a thesis; nobody sponsored me; my qualifications were modest … Disappointed applicants were regularly extruded from the interview room. Eventually, I was sat across a desk from a stern middle-aged woman, whose head reminded me of a tank turret. I smiled, handed over my form and explained that a ticket for one week would suffice. She sniffed. I then produced a letter from my local library advising me to apply to the British Library, which held the only copy. Her head swivelled towards the paper, eye-slits glinting ominously. I murmured that I could make do with a one-day ticket if need be. 'Sit back!' she suddenly barked. There was a flash and a whirr and she passed me a five-year ticket, content, I suppose, with supplying the opposite of what I had requested."

My own experience of applying for a British Library reader pass last autumn was far less terrifying. I smiled a lot, anticipating a fight; the man in charge smiled back, took a terrible photo of me, and issued me with a reader pass for year. Just like that.