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OPINION

December 12, 1997

University Libraries: the 7-Per-Cent Solution

By JAMES SHAPIRO

Scholars who depend on university libraries for their teaching and research don’t need to consult the latest statistics to know that reductions in what universities are willing to spend on libraries have made their professional lives increasingly difficult.

In its most recently published report, the Association of Research Libraries, which keeps tabs on the 100 or so leading research libraries in North America, reveals that over the past decade, these libraries have cut back spending on purchases of monographs by 23 per cent and of journals by 8 per cent. The reductions have come during a period when library use is on the rise; 24 per cent more graduate students are using libraries than a decade ago, 8 per cent more undergraduates, and 17 per cent more faculty members. More library users means more pressure on librarians: In the past 10 years, requests for reference help have risen by 14 per cent, while the demand on librarians for instruction has climbed by 33 per cent (numbers that are sure to rise with the introduction of more-sophisticated—and to some, intimidating— technologies). Even as the demands put on librarians continue to grow, research universities have cut back on personnel. Since 1985, the libraries cited in the report have eliminated, on average, 6 per cent of their staff members.

The well-documented rise in the cost of books and journals (as well as the hand wringing of university administrators) has created the misleading impression that libraries have become a significant drain on the resources of major research institutions. In fact, the opposite is true: As a 1992 report from the Mellon Foundation on “University Libraries and Scholarly Communication” observed, the proportion of the budget that goes to libraries at both public and private research institutions has actually shrunk dramatically since the late 1970s (though, tellingly, the proportion at leading liberal-arts colleges, committed to undergraduate education, has remained constant).

The failure to maintain spending levels for research libraries is leading to a serious decline of collections that in some cases have taken 200 years or more to accumulate. Millions of books in these libraries, printed on acidic paper, are disintegrating at an alarming rate. It has been estimated that anywhere from a quarter to a half of the books housed in university collections are endangered, and that in perhaps 20 per cent of these volumes, the pages already have become brittle, leaving tiny brown fragments—the telltale signs of disintegration—on library photocopy machines. Given the cost of deacidifying books, the likelihood is that a lot of volumes are going to turn to dust before anything can be done to save them.

Administrators at research universities have responded in two ways to this crisis. The more farsighted, who have come to acknowledge that a strong library is critical to the intellectual health of the university, have reconsidered university priorities and have already embarked on programs to transform their collections, in anticipation of the “gateway” or “virtual” library of the future. The belated expenditures are considerable—and will continue to be needed for decades to come. The money is going toward building warehouses for rarely consulted books; developing consortia to share books and journals; investing in digital technologies; sponsoring conferences on library issues; continuing to acquire monographs and journals in both print and digital form; hiring more librarians; consulting with faculty users; and replacing quickly outmoded audio, visual, and computer equipment, as well as printers and microfilm machines.

Other university administrators prefer simply to talk about—or, at most, tentatively to plan for—the future, but as yet have done very little to bring it about. They labor under the false hope that the virtual library—in which users deal only with on-line information—will be virtually cost-free, because instead of having to buy information, libraries will simply provide users with electronic access to it. The problem with such thinking is that the library of the future is sure to be even more expensive than the current one: Books will still be with us, while technological advances will require frequent and expensive upgrading of electronic resources. It’s worth noting that no standardized model for digital reproduction yet exists, and that there are still flaws in existing systems. In addition, the library of the future will need to employ many more trained personnel than libraries currently do, to teach new students and retrain faculty members in how to gain access to the library’s holdings.

In such an environment, university administrators who are letting their libraries languish often adopt the rhetoric of officials who are actually doing something substantive. About the only sure way to tell the difference between the two is to look at what they spend. The key figure here is the proportion that universities devote year in and year out to libraries in what they label their “general and educational expenditures.” I learned from serving on library committees that the break-even point for a large collection—just enough to keep the collection intact, while allowing for modest technological improvements—is about 3 per cent (down from close to 4 per cent 20 years ago). A percentage point or two higher is a sure sign of a flourishing library, one that is as committed to the past as it is to the future. But if a major university is spending less than 3 per cent, there’s a strong likelihood of neglect, one that will have a corrosive effect on both research and teaching.

I hunted down the figures on university libraries where I’ve done some research during the past few years, and the numbers confirm my impressions about which libraries seem to be getting better and which seem to be deteriorating. In 1994-95 (the most recent year for which I have figures), Harvard spent more than $68-million on its libraries—an impressive 5.1 per cent of its $1.3-billion of expenditures. Princeton spent an even higher proportion -- 6.8 per cent. Then there’s a pretty sharp drop to the next spending level, found at libraries that are still a pleasure to use: Dartmouth spent 3.84 per cent, Yale 3.83 per cent, and Chicago 3.51 per cent.

I’m embarrassed to report that my own university, Columbia, with one of the largest collections in the country, ranked far lower, spending a meager 2.55 per cent, or $28-million, on its libraries (which helps explain why I have had to spend so much time at other libraries, and why a survey by Columbia’s library revealed that more than 90 per cent of Columbia’s professors no longer set foot in the main library). It’s depressing to discover how many prestigious universities devote an even smaller proportion of their expenditures to their libraries than do the institutions that I’ve cited.

You know that you have entered an underfinanced library when you can’t find an available computer terminal, and if you do, its printer is broken; when the ancient machines in the microfilm room are in terrible condition; when overstuffed carts holding books waiting to be reshelved are backed up like cars in stalled traffic; and when the shelves holding the call number “PR” are infiltrated by books with such call numbers as “PT,” “PS,” and an occasional “PN.”

Underfinanced libraries are also easy to identify by the hours they stay closed. Those of us who rely most heavily on research libraries for our livelihood -- faculty members and graduate students—are also those who spend a good part of the 9-to-5 weekday teaching, or at meetings, or holding office hours. The times that research can be squeezed in -- weekends, holidays, and breaks between semesters—also happen to be the times when libraries cut costs by shutting down. Those libraries, which often lack carrels for faculty members’ use, seem almost intent on discouraging professors from using them.

Another sure sign of underinvestment is the decline in core services. When a library staff has been reduced to a skeleton crew, books that were published months ago, if not years ago, remain in the limbo of what the on-line catalogue describes as “In Process”—which means that the teams of people needed to select, purchase, catalogue, label, cart, and shelve them are no longer at full strength.

In my own experience at Columbia, I’ve learned that the people who suffer most from an underfinanced library are students. When I can’t get hold of a book at my university library, I can either buy it, wait a few weeks and get it through interlibrary loan, or, more typically, wait even longer, until I visit another library. But a student who has to consult a book or article for a paper due in a week has little recourse. Sometimes, students are unaware that books that they want are actually in the library, because the books don’t appear in the on-line catalogue. (Nobody has told them that the library can’t afford to enter into its on-line catalogue all of the older books that are still to be found only through the card catalogue.)

Of course, my students still find a way to do research papers, and, like my colleagues, I still manage to come up with lecture material. But the quality of student research conducted at a library run on the cheap ends up being a bit below what one might hope for. As for the lectures, how many of my students will know that I was unable to draw on ideas from the latest published books and articles, because that scholarship either wasn’t purchased or hadn’t quite made it to the library’s stacks? The savvier graduate students at any institution quickly figure out that the people who go on to get academic positions do their critical research at other libraries, such as the Huntington, Folger, and British Library.

In the late 1970s, it was possible for a scholar in the humanities to undertake serious research at any one of 60 or 70 top university libraries. A decade from now, I suspect that this number will be reduced by half, at least. It remains to be seen which universities will make the long-term commitment that will insure a place in that company and thereby attract and retain the nation’s finest teachers and students.

James Shapiro is a professor of English and comparative literature at Columbia University. He writes regularly on publishing for The Chronicle.

Copyright © 1997 by The Chronicle of Higher Education