You can find them everywhere: they sprout like mushrooms in parks, public squares, near schools, or by public transport stops. Sometimes, you can even spot them on private properties, in visible spaces along the street. They are commonly called “little free libraries.”
These small, freely accessible libraries operate on a simple yet powerful principle: anyone can leave, borrow, or take a book freely, at any time. They embody the spirit of sharing and making culture accessible to everyone.
Often handcrafted, they reflect the creativity of their makers. Some are made from repurposed materials: an old freezer, a disused cold room, or even a reinforced shelf built to withstand the elements. During my walks, I even discovered one made from a barrel in the charming village of Saint-Laurent-de-la-Cabrerisse. Most of the time, these libraries are managed by local residents, a testament to a beautiful collective initiative. What a wonderful way to make literature accessible to all!
Of course, these little free libraries don’t replace a proper library, but they complement its role. When I was 11, back in the 1970s, initiatives like this didn’t exist. At that time, I frequented the Pâquerettes Municipal Library in Nanterre. I lived in the Lilas housing estate, where life wasn’t easy for many. I remember the shantytowns where many Algerian workers lived in terrible conditions: without running water, without heating, in makeshift shacks that I passed by every day on my way to school.
Among my memories, there is one that stands out: a little boy who lived in my building. He was often left to fend for himself, wandering around the estate, vulnerable to dangers. He seemed abandoned, with no guidance. I loved what books gave me so much: an escape, a chance to live other lives, to become someone else through stories. One day, I decided to share that gift with him. We held hands, and I took him to the library, to introduce him to that universe, that refuge where he could find comfort or inspiration.
Sadly, not long after, I learned of his death. That day, he tried to cross the street in front of our building. He passed behind a truck without looking, and a car hit him. This painful memory still haunts me today.
That’s why I find these little free libraries so precious, though they also sadly remind me of that boy’s death. These small libraries, even modest ones, are like outstretched hands—an invitation to discover, to dream, and to escape.
