by K. Abigail Walthausen
The Pratt Institute’s library is one of my favorite places in Brooklyn and one of the quietest I know. Pratt is an art school, and sometimes I attribute its almost uncanny silence to the student body (or its absence), sequestered in art studios rather than the stacks and reading rooms. The larger surroundings also help: Pratt lies at the heart of the residential neighborhood of Clinton Hill, surrounded by a grassy park and streets lined with 19th century brownstones and Greek Revival mansions. Sometimes, as I sit imagining the elevated train that until 1950 ran directly through the lush campus, I see the serenity as a hushed aftermath of the library’s busier days. …
