I just got my Annual Appeal letter from the Boston Athenaeum, the private library that Karl and Freddie gave me a membership to on my last birthday. The Annual Appeal is the library’s drive to make $525,000 in additional funding beyond the standard $100 (if you’re under 40) or $250 yearly membership fee revenue. I don’t doubt the library will need the extra money: they occupy some of the best real estate in Boston, right next to the State House; they buy books, they buy paintings, they host all sorts of programs and research; they are constantly working to restore and preserve their aging building and its collection of half a million books.

The Athenaeum is nearly 200 years old. It holds a place as a unique American literary resource, a national historic building, and a cultural-intellectual institution. Yet the Athenaeum always feels underutilized to me—I never see anyone under 75 in the place, and the 75-year-olds are few and far between. I often spend an afternoon in the library and see only a couple staff members. An enormous reading room with a pristinely restored vaulted ceiling lies empty most of the day. Dozens of early American bronze sculptures lounge around feeling underappreciated. Beautiful antique study carrels and leather chairs remain unoccupied. Stepping into the library from the busy downtown street, I feel like I’ve entered a cathedral on off-hours. There’s a deafening quietude; it’s a social anti-node, and I’m compelled to tiptoe even though no one is around.

I think the Athenaeum is kept clean, quiet, and unoccupied on purpose. I think its life as an institution parallels the lives of its geriatric membership. They are birds of a feather, both nurturing an obsessive desire to freeze time that I’ll only fully understand half a century from now, if I’m still around.

Maybe it’s just the timing of my visits. I go during the day on Thursdays and Fridays, when most people under 75 are at work, and anyone not working is also not wandering private libraries. I’ll have to visit on the weekend sometime.

Anyway, I received a donation letter from them yesterday. It was a normal appeal for money, like all the rest that come in weekly from non-profits. But toward the end there was a bit that brought up the now-familiar penurious feeling I get in my stomach when I walk into the library:

“I am happy to report that, as of today, we have received $400,000. … I hope that you will join the more than 600 donors who have already made a commitment …”

Six hundred people donated $400,000, so the average donation for these 600 people was $667. Compare this with the NPR crowd, another group with an above-average income, where the average donation is around $60.

Given this bit of information, and the feeling I already get from the place, I can see why more people in my tax bracket aren’t members. There are cultural pressures at work here. The upper-class intellectuals of Boston have this place swen up tight. The library is an excellent resource for me, at $8 a month, but the membership presents a personal challenge: am I prepared to be at the short end of intergenerational chatter with upper-class socialites looking for a place to hang out and quirky bookworms doing literary research?

Yes! Ultimately, this is too good of a resource to not be involved with. The people are friendly. The funding is plentiful. So I think it’s time I got more involved before my membership runs out. Karl and I are going to the annual April Fools reception for the members under 40. If there are more than a dozen people, I’ll have to revise my perspective.