Gelman Library is a treasure, a glittering brutal-esque gem among base, postmodern rocks. Yet this diamond in the rough goes unnoticed by the student body. Day in and day out, we move like ghosts from one haunting place to another, indifferent to the beauty that surrounds us.

How can one not marvel at the grandeur of the library, a building so imposing it looks as though a great cement block fell from the sky and we got bored one day and just hollowed it out and sent students there to for hard mental labor.

If one were to simply stop in their tracks, pulling themselves out of whatever academic stupor they find themselves in, they would be astonished at what they could actually see. No! What they could feel.

They could feel the imposing power behind it, like they were a political prisoner being led into a government building on the eastern block. Or perhaps they would feel adrenaline begin pumping through their veins as they imagine how each tiny slit of a window is really an archer's nest to stave off hoards of invading Mongols.

Alas, no. No one seems to care about this modern marvel of architecture. Instead, the school wastes the tuition of countless students in order to make shiny, trendy new dorms and buildings with things like sleek floors, large windows, and a vague reflective sense of hope and optimism. They are but superfluous and extravagant wastes of space, which will surely eventually pale in comparison to greater structures like the library.

Because while newer buildings age, their style will become less and less popular, being left behind in the dust. Such buildings wear their age poorly. But masterpieces like Gelman Library will stay beautiful and confident forever. Its sun-bleached, oil-stained, fracturing and flaking body wears the whips and scorns of time visibly, and wears it with pride.

Come back next week for a feature on a fawning analysis of the single most outwardly beautiful and downright pleasant-to-look-at building on campus, Funger Hall.