Early in my collegiate career, the only way I could do any serious study was to head to the stacks. Trying to get work done at my desk in the dorm just wasn't working. I needed to get away from all distractions. Now the stacks that I'm talking about, in no way looked like this. In back of the circulation desk at the Library, there was a narrow stairway that that led up about four flights of stairs to countless books and matters of research. My destination was a few cubicles that looked out on the rolling fields, through a bank of hardwoods towards the distant Thruway and solace. Three or four hours spent here got the paper written, the research completed or hundreds of pages read. The pages of Wuthering Heights, Tristram Shandy, Moll Flanders,Tom Jones, Kidnapped, Treasure Island, Great Expectations, Moby Dick, The Adventures Huckleberry Finn and many, many more would all run together, if I didn't find a get-a-way place of quiet. With a test every Monday morning over the assigned reading, an island of calm and solitude was of utmost importance, and I found it here. And yes, I've been awaken from a restful sleep on more than one occasion with the haunting question on my lips. What novel is assigned this week?