Goodreads Choice Award Nominee for Best Historical Fiction (2021)

This is the little-known story of Belle da Costa Greene, who at one point was J. P. Morgan’s personal librarian and who became one of the most powerful women in New York despite the dangerous secret she kept in order to make her dreams come true.

I ran across this book in a work book-club recommendation. It was easy enough on the eye so I didn’t give it a second thought and started reading.

In her twenties, Belle da Costa Greene is hired by J. P. Morgan to curate a collection of rare manuscripts, books, and artwork for his newly built Pierpont Morgan Library. Belle becomes a fixture on the New York society scene and one of the most powerful people in the art and book world, known for her impeccable taste and shrewd negotiating for critical works as she helps build a world-class collection.

The girls in the book club kept on calling Belle an envisage of woman empowerment, a black woman voice in a white sea of men but for me it was none of that. Belle is hiding her true self from the beginning. She was born not Belle da Costa Greene but Belle Marion Greener. She is the daughter of Richard Greener, the first Black graduate of Harvard and a well-known advocate for equality. Belle’s complexion isn’t dark because of her alleged Portuguese heritage that lets her pass as white—her complexion is dark because she is African American.

“You think our pale skin is a gift from God?” Papa’s fury was evident. “Don’t you ever think about the reason we are light-colored? Does the violence that white men perpetrated upon our ancestors never cross your mind?”

While The Personal Librarian could be a “story of an extraordinary woman, famous for her intellect, style, and wit” as the synopsis calls, all I could see was a woman who took advantage of her new position for a man of power and eased her way with his help into high society, all while hiding her roots.

The reason why this booked did earn a few stars from my point of view was her dedication to books and the library on its own.

…, my vision and ambition for the library are limitless. My youth means that I have boundless time and undivided energy to devote to you and your collection. My passion for rare manuscripts and incunabula means that I will be relentless in acquiring the ideal items to make your collection incomparable, learning from your expertise in negotiation and the marketplace as I do so, of course. And the fact that I’m a woman means that every time I enter a room, I will have everyone’s attention, which is exactly what the Pierpont Morgan Library deserves.

JP Morgan’s daughter seem to catch on to what she is and doesn’t like her one bit. An ambitious woman who will climb on anything she can until she can see some light. It’s not a tale of discrimination as her employer gives her free reign and a very good wage. It’s not a tale of how the black community has suffered – as she hides her roots and refuses to own them for most of the book. She’s ashamed.

The book does drag on for quite a bit and I did loose interest here and there.  The dialogue was a killer for me. It frequently felt stilted or unnatural; instead of feeling like the dialogue was time-period appropriate I felt like it was written in a way that someone unfamiliar with the time would assume people in that era would speak. The way context was provided was also clunky sometimes, and I found it to be distracting from the story. I appreciated the author’s notes and historical context at the end, but they also only furthered my confusion about a major parts of the storyline.

She is flirtatious but only when it suits her. It’s like watching a courtesan at work trying to acquire more power.

“Of course.” I turn my attention to him. I only hope the request will not be of a romantic nature. While I’ve found that a bit of flirtation helps ease business dealings, particularly since I cannot smoke cigars and drink after-dinner brandy to establish a rapport like my colleagues can, I like this Englishman and don’t want to have to reject his advances.

[…]

Do you see how everyone is looking at you? You are as singular as the art you acquire.” Whether he intends it or not, his lips are so close to my ear that I feel the warmth of his breath. When I turn toward him, I find that, because of his height, our faces are close, very intimate.
I have learned to flirt with ease, but my visceral and intellectual reaction to this man is robbing me of my usual banter. Is it because—for once—I feel understood? It is as if I am naked before him, without the armor of wit and humor I usually wear to these occasions. I don’t allow myself to back away, but I try to wrest control of our intimate exchange and steer it back to a more usual course.

She starts thinking that JP Morgan is sexually attracted to her, and she likes it. Not the way a savvy survivor in a misogynist and racist society might (what leverage does this give me), but the way an overly sheltered much younger woman would. This is where I stopped reading. Whether the affair happened (gross) or it didn’t and she felt rejected (when she should feel relieved), I wasn’t in for it. More importantly, I felt like the real, historical, yes she existed woman would be offended by how she was made to look. Incoherent, naive, silly.