On the happy miracle of Wellington’s reopened library

2026-03-23 - 16:03

Queues aren’t usually beautiful, and they are inclined to bring out the worst in some people. But no one was pushing in anywhere on a sunny Saturday morning when half of Wellington had biked, bussed, trained, walked, scootered, ferried or searched for a carpark to visit the reopened central public library. When we arrived, too late to see the mayor cut the red ribbon, we worked out how to actually get inside. There was clearly a queue, but where to join it? Patient people shuffled forward talking quietly among themselves. The thick line showing the full demographic of Wellington readers stretched all the way to the bridge that isn’t going to be pulled down now. We changed plans and headed for the nearby waterfront instead. One of us was weeping a little, not having seen anything quite as beautiful as that queue into that building for quite some time. Someone had put a million-watt lightbulb in a socket, and turned it on to shine down on our city. And in the days since, the sun has realised how petty it has been this summer, and it has shone through magnificent windows, dappling the reupholstered chairs, the spines of thousands of books, the handles of pushchairs, the braces on the teeth of the young, the odd renegade phone and a million pairs of spectacles. It has warmed the meeting rooms, recording studios, 3D printers and all the rest of the things that places that used to be for quiet reading have now become. The word sshhh has become archaic. The trio of Wellington’s male mayors had woken the library from its sleep. Monday was the day that I had arranged to meet my lady writer friend for coffee in what used to be called Clarks. Through the main doors we went into a glass palace. It was hard to find a seat, but we did and shared a chicken, avocado and cranberry club sandwich, and as we wrestled with the cling film covering we were hurtled straight back to 2019 when the library had turned to custard. A quick glance showed that they still had millionaire’s (now billionaire’s) shortbread, and their fish pie. The coffee was excellent. We admired other people’s babies. The lady writer had visited on the Saturday, with her South Korean whānau, and they had found books, piles of them, in their first language. Good! But we shared a mutual reservation at the mayor’s comment as he slid the scissors through that innocent ribbon that libraries are no longer just for books. A mind is for the changing. I left the café and tried to work out where the books were. I wanted to head to the biography section and there were useful multilingual signs but my feet, programmed to walk in a certain direction in that space, were in disagreement with my brain. I got on an escalator and eventually found the books. In spite of dire assertions from people whose opinions I tend to agree with, there were still a lot of them. I found my picture book Wrapping Things on the B shelf where the books face out and moved it to the front. John Burningham sat obediently behind me. “Is there a down escalator?” I asked a burly fellow dressed as if his night job was moving homeless people off nearby streets, and he answered compassionately, “Unfortunately no.” As I stepped off the bottom stair, freeing the handrail from my grip, a librarian almost obscured by a feathering of those tickets which slide unbidden from the machine when you take out a book, asked how I’d found the new library. Oh I miss the old one, I babbled, and she gave me what-ho in the nicest possible way. The next day I went back in the morning, had coffee with a book-loving friend, and as it’s only four minutes walk from our apartment, I went again in the afternoon. I was back in that airy place in seconds. But I was prepared; this time I took a list of names with me, favourite writers to look for. Still queues at the café, still Wellington’s readers surging politely around me. My feet knew where to go, and my eyes lifted up and saw the exquisite beauty of that place. My heart exploded, my inner spoilsport discreetly left the building. I looked for the librarian but wouldn’t have recognised her without her cloak of little strips of paper. Andrew Miller’s book before his latest work of genius, and an Anne Tyler that I seem to have missed in 2018, were issued by that brilliant machine that can see through a pile. My little piece of paper in the correct receptacle, I floated down Victoria Street, solar powered. I have two homes now, and one is just an easy, easy stroll from the other. Te Matapihi ki te Ao Nui Central Library is open 9am–7pm, Monday–Friday and 9.30am–5pm, Saturday and Sunday. It has 250,000 books.