Malvika Anand
In the 1970s, the library was my sanctuary as a young journalist, a place where stories came to life in the quiet hum of turning pages. There were no digital archives, no instant searches—just row upon row of books, periodicals, and clippings, each containing pieces of the world waiting to be discovered. The New York Public Library alone housed over 10 million books at the time, and it was here, along with smaller archives, that I’d spend long afternoons. Government reports, historical records, and old newspapers like The New York Times—dating back to its inception in 1851—were my lifeline. The smell of aged paper clung to the air, and the sound of a librarian wheeling a cart felt like a promise. Each fact, each lead, came from this vast treasure trove, where microfilm readers hummed and card catalogs guided your search. The library wasn’t just a resource—it was the heart of journalism, a place where you had to dig, to work for your story, and in doing so, understand its weight.
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