A 24/7 public library may sound like a luxury. It is not. It is a public good, a quiet form of social justice, and for many people it can mean the difference between drifting and flourishing.

I know this not as an abstract idea, but from experience. Some of my most productive and memorable hours have been spent writing in libraries, especially in and around the Bodleian Library. There is something transformative about being surrounded by books, journals, archives, and the steady concentration of other readers. A library does not simply offer a desk and a chair. It offers seriousness. It tells you that your work matters, that study matters, that thought matters.

Access to good materials has made a real difference in my life. To be able to consult journals, follow a footnote, browse shelves, and sit for hours with a question until it begins to yield an answer is a privilege that should not remain the preserve of a few. Libraries widen a person’s horizon. They make learning less dependent on private wealth, private space, and private connections. They give shape to ambition.

That i s precisely why the idea of 24/7 public libraries is so powerful. Not everyone can study or read during conventional hours. Some students work day jobs. Some workers can only pursue further education at night. Some parents do their intellectual work only after children are asleep. Some people live in crowded homes where silence is rare and concentration nearly impossible. For them, extended library hours are not a convenience. They are an opening.

A library that stays open late, or ideally around the clock, recognizes the reality of modern life. It accepts that talent does not always keep office hours. Curiosity does not strike only from nine to five. The future doctor revising for exams, the job-seeker filling out applications, the aspiring novelist drafting chapters, the civil service hopeful reviewing for tests, the researcher chasing a difficult idea, all need somewhere dependable to go. A society that is serious about mobility should provide that place.

There is also something deeply democratic about a library at midnight. It is one of the few spaces left where a person may enter without the expectation of spending money. In many cities, almost every safe and comfortable indoor space after dark is commercial. Cafés close. Shops shut. Co-working spaces charge fees. Yet the need for refuge, study, and reflection remains. A public library answers that need with dignity. It says: you belong here, whether or not you can pay.

This is why I hope such a policy can be adopted in the Philippines. The country has no shortage of talent, discipline, or aspiration. What it often lacks is equal access to the conditions that allow those qualities to mature. Better and longer library access would not solve every educational challenge, but it would be a meaningful start. Imagine students preparing for board exams with reliable access to books and journals. Imagine young people from crowded neighborhoods finding a safe, well-lit place to read and think. Imagine researchers, writers, and ordinary citizens treating the library not as an occasional stop, but as part of daily civic life.

Of course, 24/7 libraries would require funding, staffing, security, and careful planning. But that is not an argument against the idea. It is an argument for taking libraries seriously enough to invest in them.

A country reveals its priorities by what it keeps open. Bars, malls, and convenience stores are useful enough. But a library open through the night would declare something finer: that knowledge is essential, that quiet is valuable, and that the life of the mind should not be reserved for the fortunate few.