After all manner of professors have done their best for us, the

In the words attributed to Albert Camus: “After all manner of professors have done their best for us, the place we are to get knowledge is in books. The true university of these days is a collection of books.” These words are a reminder that while teachers may open the gates of understanding, the endless fields of wisdom are found in the written word. Professors guide, they instruct, they illuminate a path—but it is the book that becomes the eternal companion, ever patient, ever ready, holding treasures for those who seek beyond the classroom.

The ancients, too, revered the written word. The Egyptians inscribed their wisdom on papyrus, the Hebrews on scrolls, the Greeks on parchment. The great Library of Alexandria was not merely a storehouse, but a temple of the mind, revered because within its walls lay the distilled spirit of generations. Kings might command armies, priests might guard temples, but it was in the books that the truest treasures of civilization were preserved. Camus’ words echo this lineage, reminding us that the real university lies not in stone halls but in the silent voices that live within pages.

Consider Abraham Lincoln, who grew up in poverty, with no formal schooling and little guidance from professors. His education was the Bible, Shakespeare, and a handful of books borrowed and read by candlelight. Those volumes became his teachers, shaping his mind, refining his speech, and strengthening his character until he was able to guide a nation through its darkest trial. His story is the embodiment of Camus’ wisdom: that the true university can be built wherever one has the hunger for learning and a collection of books.

Camus’ words also speak to the independence of the learner. Professors may set the foundation, but the journey of wisdom must be taken alone. A book does not lecture—it converses. It allows the reader to pause, to reflect, to question, to wrestle with ideas in the quiet chamber of the mind. In this way, a book is not a passive object but an active companion, a mirror and a guide. The greatest scholars have always been those who went beyond the classroom, digging into volumes until their souls burned with insight.

History warns us what happens when the value of books is forgotten. When the Mongols burned Baghdad’s House of Wisdom, rivers ran black with ink, and an age of brilliance was dimmed. When tyrants in every century sought to control the people, they did not only chain their bodies—they burned their books. Why? Because they knew what Camus reminds us: that the truest university lies in books, and that to destroy them is to cripple the spirit of a people. Thus, to read is not only to learn; it is to resist forgetfulness and preserve freedom.

The lesson for us is clear: cherish your books, whether they are bound in leather or glowing on a screen. Professors may open the door, but it is the pages you turn that will carry you into the heart of wisdom. Do not rely only on teachers—become your own. Build your own university, even if it is a single shelf of beloved works. Let each volume be a stepping stone across the river of ignorance, carrying you closer to truth.

Therefore, O seeker, engrave this teaching on your heart: the classroom is a beginning, but the book is the endless path. Professors may guide your hand, but it is in your reading, your reflection, your solitary struggle with ideas that true learning is born. Gather books as treasures, treat them as companions, and let them become your lifelong university. For as Camus declares, the collection of books is the true sanctuary of wisdom, and those who dwell there shall never cease to grow.