What do we really know of them—these library gods of ours? We know them by name; their names are household words. We know them by fame; their fame is immortal. So we pay tribute to them by purchasing their books—and, too often, rest satisfied with that. The riches that they offer us are within arm’s length, and we leave them there. We go our ways seeking for mental nourishment, when our larders at home are full.

Three hundred years ago last week William Shakespeare died, but Shakespeare, the poet, is more alive today than when his bones were laid to rest in Stratford. It was not until seven years after his death that the first collected edition of his works was published. Today there are thousands of editions, and new ones appear each year. It seems that we must all have Shakespeare in our homes. And why? Is it simply to give character to our bookshelves; or is it because we realize that the works of Shakespeare and of his fellow immortals are the foundation stones of literature, and that we want to be near them and know them?

We value anniversaries most of all as occasions for placing fresh wreaths of laurel on life’s altars. In the memory of Shakespeare, then, let us pledge ourselves anew to our library gods. Let us turn their glowing pages again—and read once more those inspired messages of mind and heart in which we find life’s meaning.