Matthew J. Prigge has written an essay titled “The ‘Mutually Confounding’ Relationship Between Librarian and Researcher,” to tell the tale of how one librarian’s quiet preservation work reshaped his career. The librarian saved a dusty basement pile of papers that turned a thesis into a book, and Prigge wants everyone to know about it.
Prigge entered librarianship much the way a barfly settles into tending bar: by sitting long enough at the counter to admire the person on the other side, then deciding he could likely manage it for a living. Before thinking about switching, he had already put a few books into print. His admiration for the work began while he was still in graduate school, where he spent weeks at the downtown library in Milwaukee researching the city’s old movie censor board for his masters thesis in history.
One day, a librarian approached him from behind and indicated a pile of boxes containing papers and notecards, a complete record of every picture the censor board had examined across four decades. The librarian’s remark caught him off guard; he had never met her before. “I thought you might be interested in this,” she remarked. “I don’t think it’s ever been processed. It was in the basement. I kept them from throwing it out about ten years ago.”
The Cart That Changed Everything
That was a minor intervention. Probably less of a grand stance for preservation than a tepid, “Let’s hang on it just in case.” The librarian found an out-of-the-way place for the stuff and let it sit for a decade before overhearing a few words about Prigge’s project. She decided to get a cart.
Prigge thought he had just a day or two left working at the library, but those six weeks stretched far beyond his expectations. What began as a modest little thesis grew into a full-length book. A bartender does the same thing: they make your life more exciting while also making it more difficult.
The Patron’s Dilemma
Prigge is not the only one who enjoys the complications. Librarians long for patrons who will create hours of extra work. Most of a librarian’s duties are low impact. Working in a public library means helping people sign into emails, showing them how to work the printer, and putting holds on best-sellers. Academia is similar: here’s where you can find this book, here’s how you get to this article, are you sure you’re signed into the VPN? They’re never signed into the VPN.
So when someone shows up with a story they’re dying to tell — with a research question tied into a knot the size of a hand grenade — the librarian really appreciates the hours they’ll get to spend trying to find what the patron hopes exists. The ideal researcher-librarian relationship is a mutually confounding one.
From Thesis to Book
Prigge began a new position as a faculty librarian at Marquette University in Milwaukee in 2023. He spent his summer break settling into the role, learning about the many databases and digital collections the library made available to its users. Once he opened a digitized collection of LGBTQ periodicals, he found himself staring at an empty search bar and a blinking cursor.
He had a light bulb moment, thinking back to one of his many lost-abandoned book projects. What the hell was his name, he thought. Years earlier, he’d had an idea for a book about the true story behind the 1975 film Dog Day Afternoon, in which Al Pacino plays a gay man who robs a Brooklyn bank to pay for his lover’s gender-affirming surgery. It was one of his favorite films of all time, telling a gritty story of love and violence and mid-summer madness that he just burned to explore further. He’d even come up with a title: Dog’s Day.
The idea came to a close with just a concept and a two-word title. Yet a search through Wikipedia for “John Wojtowicz”, the actual bank robber, produced a large number of articles. Those articles pointed to even more articles, far more articles than expected. The articles carried names attached to them. Some of those writers had given their papers over to various archives and libraries. Inside those papers were letters, clippings, and notes that offered a deep look into Wojtowicz, his crimes, and his strange group of lovers, enemies, and accomplices.
After making a first visit to an archive, more followed, each time with librarians adding to his pile of material, delighted to hear about his pursuit of papers. This month, the book arrives, keeping its original title intact.
The Project That Died
A research project doesn’t always work out. Prigge started another project after finishing a draft called Dog’s Day*. Sixish months of research later, he realized the idea didn’t have the legs he’d hoped for, and he had to cut his losses. It happens. Some books die in the archives and that’s all right. Better they stay buried there than falling into the hands of some bored reader.
Prigge, who serves as an academic librarian, meets with students frequently to discuss their research — the narratives they wish to convey and the queries they aim to resolve. The majority of them simply wish to complete the term, yet a select few genuinely hold a deep interest in this endeavor. He thus takes on their difficulties, generating as much labor for them as possible. He informs them that dead ends do not represent wasted hours and that they will always depend upon their sources. He also urges them never to hesitate before the librarians, since one of them may very well know about a collection of boxes stored in the building’s lower level.
Why the Basement Matters
This narrative shows that saving things is rarely glorious work. A librarian merely found room for the papers and prevented them from being discarded. Decade later, those boxes became the basis of a volume.
Key Facts Box
- Book: Dog’s Day by Matthew J. Prigge
- Publication: Out this month
- Publisher: Counterpoint
- Prigge’s background: Author and librarian from Milwaukee; six books published
- Previous work: A book on film censorship
What We Make of It
Prigge stumbled upon the censor board records by chance rather than design. The book about Dog Day Afternoon was never his intended goal. A question posed at the library led to a cart full of unprocessed papers being rolled over to him by a librarian. This kind of unexpected turn is what makes research so rewarding.
The abandoned project serves as a reminder to be humble. It shows that not every lead leads somewhere. Yet the dead ends still carry value. They instruct patience, they show the limits of available information, and they demonstrate the worth of posing questions that no one else has posed.
A librarian’s refusal to simply supply what a researcher asks for can make that researcher’s job harder, as Prigge concedes. Yet the friction itself is the engine of the collaboration. It is the resistance that generates the results.
The staff behind the reference desk are more than keepers of books, according to Prigge’s essay. They are investigators, archivists, and often the sole individuals aware of where the intriguing material is concealed. The lower level should not be overlooked.
Prigge’s story demonstrates that when librarians and researchers connect, remarkable outcomes can follow — even after ten years and a cart full of boxes. The relationship between these two parties should be celebrated rather than treated as a problem to fix.
Source material: “The “Mutually Confounding” Relationship Between Librarian and Researcher,” Literary Hub.
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