I’m not shy to admit that I’m an Ohio boy, y’all. For me, January means blizzards, grey skies, and frigid arctic winds blasting across Lake Erie. On any given day I’m schlepping along in slush covered Carhartts, frozen winter boots, and a fuzzy fur-lined hat, chiseling ice from my truck.

Good times.

But I wasn’t in Ohio. I was in La Jolla, just north of the San Diego metropolitan area, where the January air was inviting and pleasant. No snow, no insulated overalls, and no preheating the truck at 350 for 10 minutes.

Eucalyptus leaves swayed in the breeze as Lis and I walked along a footpath at University of California San Diego. The sun even kissed our cheeks and hugged the landscape as it peered through the clouds.

I wasn’t here for the weather, though, lovely as it was. No, I came for the angular, the bleak, the monochromatic, and the brutal. I was here for The Geisel Library.

It came into view as the grove of trees thinned. We stood gazing upward.

I had never seen something like this. It looked otherworldly, futuristic, and, frankly, pretty groovy.

This was a library? Did George Clinton tear the roof off this sucker at the top of every hour?

No. This was certainly a library.

Geisel Who?

The name of the library hadn’t resonated with me until shortly before I landed in San Diego. And, you’d be forgiven for a similar, inert response, too. Most people aren’t familiar with the name Geisel.

(and I’m totally not saying that to cover up my ignorance. Casts a sideways glance to avoid eye contact with more knowledgeable readers).

Theodor Geisel isn’t known to the world as Mr. Geisel. Early in his life as a student, writer, and illustrator, he adopted a more distinguished honorific to precede his middle name.

You know him as Dr. Seuss.

And that’s why we’re here. The Geisel Library contains a massive repository of Dr. Seuss’ personal documents in its special collections.

Overlooking the UCSD campus was the life and work of an author whose characters, wit, charm, poetry, and unparalleled imaginative playfulness had taken many of us to phantasmagorical lands, teaching us about ourselves and the world around us along the way.

The Brutalist

Curiously, when you look up the library online, there isn’t much focus on Seuss’ or the other special collections unless you expand your search to include them. Much of what you find focuses on the building’s design and architecture.

But there’s good reason for that. As we walked along the path leading to the library, I became increasingly aware of its presence – it loomed above us and felt more like a lunar base, perched atop the Sea of Tranquility rather the UCSD campus.

The library was designed by William Pereira in the late 1960s and was called the Central Library when it opened in 1970. His work here, and elsewhere, is mesmerizing. It features elements of Brutalism, a movement popular in the middle of the 20th century, characterized by congruent minimalistic, geometric lines that unapologetically display the building’s materials, primarily concrete. His design for the Geisel Library boldly captures your gaze, guiding it along the graceful lines of the library’s legs before seamlessly transitioning to the outstretched arms that cradle its core.

You’ll notice Pereira’s work throughout California. After moving from his native Chicago, William spent much of his life out west designing buildings like the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco, creating the city plans for Irvine, and developing buildings on the University of California Irvine’s campus, among numerous others.

Take the time to admire the library’s architecture when you visit. If you appreciate construction and its nuances, you’ll see evidence of the lumber forms used to support the concrete. They give the otherwise cold material warmth and movement, imposing the organic upon inorganic.

And within those Brutal walls? A breadth of life.

The Places We’ll Go…Inside

Visitors are invited to wander the library’s first and second floors where you can view special collection displays and check out collaborative work spaces. However, you’re not permitted on the upper levels. These quiet study areas are reserved for students.

Keep in mind that this is an academic library, not a public one. Even though you can visit and walk about, students and faculty are actively using the library and its resources. Remember, you’re a guest here.

Lis and I walked to the information kiosk and asked about tours and the special collections. Sadly, we were visiting the library on Sunday so offices were closed and staff weren’t on the property.

Mustn’t grumble though.

One student worker offered us maps and gave us an overview of the library. She also recommended we visit the upper floors and take in the views they offered. My moral compass experienced temporary conflict, knowing that these areas were off limits to us.

But, ya know, the kind student invited us to visit those floors. It would be rude to refuse her thoughtful invitation…

As the doors of the elevator opened, we stepped into a bibliophile’s dream.

Dendritic shelves filled each floor, branching out from the building’s nucleus. They carried us to the windows that overlooked the campus and surrounding La Jolla. We wandered the stacks, immersing ourselves in the stories that surrounded us.

After exploring a few more floors, we decided to find the special collections. Pereira’s Brutalist sensibilities met our gaze as his exposed concrete and lumber forms stared back at us by the elevators.

The Library Cat Meets Dr. Seuss at the Special Collections

Admiring the library’s architecture and volumes aside, Lis and I wanted to find the Seuss collection, the contents of which had birthed some of the world’s most beloved characters and stories.

But what are special collections and why were these documents there? What makes them…special?

The American Library Association breaks special collections into several categories: public library special collections, school library special collections, and academic library special collections. 

At its core, a special collection houses

“rare books, genealogy materials, archives, local history, theses, and books from local authors. The selection of materials for these special areas should be consistent with the institution’s mission, policy, and history, as well as the user’s needs. The selection criteria should include guidelines that build on the preservation and enhancement of these important collections…”

“Special collections often have unique attributes that require libraries to limit access, control the physical environment, or deny circulation. Security is not based on controversial content but rather the value, rarity, or fragility of the item.”

“Special Collections,” The American Library Association, accessed February 10, 2024, https://www.ala.org/tools/challengesupport/selectionpolicytoolkit/special.

These collections are common in larger libraries, especially those in metropolitan or academic communities. Remember, in addition to their other functions, libraries strive to preserve items, like primary sources. Their commitment to preservation contributes to the understanding of our history, culture, and ourselves.

Altogether, Geisel maintains about a dozen special collections.  These range from The Scripps Institution of Oceanographic Archives to the culinary history of Mexico to, of course, Dr. Seuss. Some items from these collections are on display near the lobby, but almost all of them are safeguarded in restricted areas. Seuss’ materials are no exception.

All materials in special collections are rare and fragile and require prodigious care. Authorization is required to view materials from a special collection, at Geisel or elsewhere.

Unfortunately, due to the time of our visit and not having built up enough academic capital via this site (which hadn’t even launched yet), we were unable to view stored items. Any pictures of Dr. Seuss’ work you see here were taken by me through the on display cases outside the special collections offices. These pieces are rotated twice a year to give visitors a glimpse of the author’s whimsy.

Nevertheless, although a little disappointed, it was inspiring to be so close to sketches that were so foundational to my love of reading and Seuss’ uninhibited imaginativeness.

Why San Diego?

Why does UCSD have so many of Dr. Seuss’ personal documents? What brought them here and not somewhere like the Smithsonian or the Dr. Seuss Museum in Springfield, Massachusetts where he was born?

You’ll find so much of his work here because Ted moved to La Jolla following World War II, where he spent most of his life. It was here he created some of his most well-known children’s books. The Cat in the Hat (1957), How the Grinch Stole Christmas (1957), The Lorax (1971), Oh, The Places You’ll Go (1990), and others, were written only 20 minutes from campus.

Life long advocates for literacy, Theodor and Audrey contributed to the growing University of California library system throughout their lives. Audrey donated numerous items after Ted’s death in 1991 but it was in 1995, following a $20 million donation from Audrey, that William Pereira’s Central Library was renamed to honor both Audrey and her husband.

As of this writing, the Dr. Seuss Collection houses over 20,000 items. These include college notebook doodles, correspondence, proofs, manuscripts, working copies, among other items. However, the Library Digital Collections currently shares just under 600 pieces, less then 5%, online for viewing.

Geisel staff is digitizing items and sharing them online through the Dr. Seuss Collection. Viewers can explore his political cartoons and read about his work in advertising, the latter of which is also how he achieved much of his early wealth.

The New Seuss

What purpose do special collections serve beyond preservation? Do they produce anything other than research opportunities and digitized primary sources?

Something exciting and unexpected happened when Audrey and the staff combed through the boxes of Ted’s work. They discovered materials for new Dr. Seuss books years after his passing. From the contents of the collection, Daisy-Head Mayzie (1994), My Many Colored Days (1996), Hooray for Diffendoofer Day (1998), Which Pet Should I Get? (2015), and The Horse Museum (2019) were posthumously published.

It’s exhilarating to discover unknown works from such a well-known creative. Who doesn’t love learning that a new book has been found and published years after an author has died?

But posthumous publication raises concerns about authorship and authority, here and elsewhere. How developed were these books? Did researchers discover the completed manuscripts and it was only a matter of getting the pages in order? Or, was the process more involved and laborious?

Having been married to Ted for almost 25 years, Audrey would have participated in this process. But with her passing in 2018, if new works come from these documents, who bears the responsibility to makes those decisions now? If any new books emerge at this point, how much will be Seuss and how much will be Seuss-like?

I don’t believe it’s hyperbole when I say that many who read Seuss cherish his rhythms, rhymes, stories, and worlds. His words and illustrations were, and still are, influential upon our lives and education. However, his work from the early 20th century has not escaped critical analysis nor has it skirted scholarly scrutiny. I had forgotten about these controversies until I began my research for this article. As I came up more and more links, articles, and stories on the matter, my memory regained focus.

The Past and Present Meet, Shake Hands…

Petitions to change the library’s name began to surface in the early 2020s as racist imagery and xenophobic attitudes Ted had expressed before and during WWII gained attention. As an artist, he perpetuated images pervasive in early 20th century illustrated media, particularly those regarding persons of color and also drew vicious caricatures of the Japanese during WWII. You can view these images through Geisel’s Digital Collections.

The cartoons he drew were used as propaganda, right around the time Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066 into action. This order instituted the detention of Japanese-American citizens in internment camps that were created by the U.S. government, following the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Like many living on the western sea border, Seuss promulgated a fear that coursed through a country very much gripped by it. Ted would apologize for some of these comments and depictions later in his life.

Now, I’m not going to use this space to offer my own analysis or persuade you in one direction or another on these images or dissect the character of Seuss as an individual. You’re an intelligent, critical thinker. I know that you can, and will, create your own thoughtful position on this after your own tactful research and diligent consideration.

Controversies like this aren’t specific to Geisel, the library or the person. Nor are they confined to the past or to wartime sentiments. Work from other creatives can be analyzed just as easily with equally, or more, damning results (coughcoughDisneycough).

However, when you’re confronted with an issue such as this, you need to situate and understand it in its environment. And that’s by no means justification or excusing it on the grounds of, “well that’s just how it was then.” But this contextualization enhances your perspective as you draw your own conclusions.

…and the Future Watches

It’s not uncommon to analyze works from the past through the lens of the present. We all do it. Sometimes we’re aware of it and sometimes we’re not. You do it when you reflect on the person you once were, beliefs you held, and things you did when you were younger. Don’t be so hard on yourself though, that’s who you were then and this is who you are now. Hopefully you’re different because you’ve grown and changed along the way. And if a memory from your past makes you uncomfortable, that’s evidence right there that you learned, grew, and changed, buddy.

Reflection can be uncomfortable. That’s ok. It’s also good. But remember that what is uncomfortable, a memory or action or relationship, is still part of you, your past, and your world. It’s foundational to the present and future.

Attempting to remove these items from circulation or viewing is easy. However, it’s a greater and more difficult task to understand someone and their world, like Seuss, and use that knowledge to educate ourselves and others with whom we find ourselves in conversation.

It forces us to confront the moral vicissitudes of those who preceded us – authors, artists, parents, grandparents – as well as our own.

But that’s how we learn from and pass on our collective past, our identity, and ourselves. Erasure leads to ignorance not understanding.

Dr. Seuss’ world wasn’t a fantastical one full of Truffula trees, foxes in sockes, or cats wearing hats. It wasn’t found in a book in the children’s section of your favorite library, one that can be removed from the shelf. It was real. Real people, real events, real consequences. Just as he was real. It’s all part of our collective story. And he was one of the many characters who made our world colorful and vibrant.

It’s all right there at the library. All in black and white.

A Place You Must Go

Lis and I walked back to the front doors and found ourselves on a different path, one that was bustling with students on their way to study. She and I had come here to explore a landmark library. And like the students inside, we were encountering the new and unexpected.

As the distance grew, I turned back to take pictures of the library. With each step, our concentrated focus on Dr. Seuss dissolved as the path around us changed and the world expanded. Our eyes were opened to new sights as we saw the library surrounded by the rest of the campus. It grew smaller in the distance, becoming a part of the La Jolla landscape.

Looking back once more, there sat Geisel, both Ted and the library. His life surrounded by a world still trying to make sense of the man called Seuss.

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