He pointed out the unraveling binding, the torn spine. "What can be done about this?" he thundered. "Not bad for 140 years," I thought, noting the high quality, low acid paper. I kept my instant diagnosis to myself, sensing that for my patron, this had just become the most important book in the world.

"This book is just going to get destroyed if they keep on letting people use it!" I was puzzled. Would he have preferred that the owning library refuse to lend out The Jingleheimer Family, forcing him to travel almost 100 miles to consult it?

Perhaps like this new genealogist, you've seen battered books in your favorite library and mentally condemned the librarians for not taking better care of their collections, or for not trying to prevent careless handling. Or conversely, you've sought a certain old book, only to find that it must be seen by appointment with an attendant and security camera monitoring you, and you mentally condemned the librarians for making it inconvenient and intimidating to do your research.

Welcome to the access vs. conservation dilemma, one of the most ancient conflicts in the library world. Access is essential, or what's the point of collecting all that stuff if no one can use it (because casual browsing is forbidden)? Conservation is essential, or what's the point of collecting all that stuff if no one can use it (because it has been damaged beyond legibility)?

Here's the problem: if you value conservation, you restrict access. The U.S. National Archives doesn't let just anyone handle the Emancipation Proclamation. If you value access, you sacrifice conservation. Those libraries that lend bestsellers are going to suffer from damaged and lost books, period.

Believe me, librarians are pained by every broken binding, every torn spine, every razored-out illustration, every brittle page, especially when these afflict irreplaceable, out-of-print books. So what can we do? Few institutions with popular collections can afford professional conservators and the costly labs necessary to diagnose and hand-treat every sick book. Perhaps they make do with cheap glue and tape.

Few institutions with rare book collections can afford enough staff and security measures to permit access on demand. Perhaps they make do with requiring appointments, identification, and credentials on the part of researchers.

For years, the best solution to this dilemma has been to provide, when copyright permits, a duplicate or replica for everyday use and to severely restrict the handling of originals. If you ever thought that microfilm (spools) or microfiche (little sheets, pronounced micro-feesh) were invented as an evil plot to give you eye strain, motion sickness, and an unhealthy aversion to research, perhaps you will look at them with new respect knowing that for decades, they have been the best solution to the access vs. preservation dilemma.

No one loves microfilm. We all know its vices: it scratches, it is sometimes illegible, it is poor for reproducing images, it is unpleasant to use. Digitizing solves many of these problems, but we're only in the infancy of scanning technology, and as I keep reminding everyone, the (pre-computer) past is simply not online. After 50 years of intensive microfilming, especially on the part of the LDS Church, the past isn't even all on film.

Now consider microfilm's virtues: it is sturdy, inexpensive, long-lasting (if produced properly), and compact. Its accompanying equipment doesn't need constant software upgrades, new operating systems, or on-site computer technicians. Unlike digital media, it doesn't suffer from format obsolescence, and its contents don't need to be migrated to a new storage medium every decade. It is theoretically possible to razor out a single page from a microfilmed publication, but no one ever does. It is rarely so desirable that anyone swipes it (though during the Titanic movie craze a few years ago, someone did steal the April 1912 roll of the New York Times from my library).

So the next time you dread reading microfilmed church records from the old country in search of an elusive 18th-century baptism, consider the alternatives: no records at all, because they were ruined by centuries of handling, or an expensive trip to a remote archive on another continent where you may not speak the language.

As for my distressed "Jingleheimer" patron? Unfortunately, I could not promise that the most important book in the world to him would be promptly and lovingly restored as the most important book in the collection of the university that lent it to him. If that truth was painful, just wait 'til he finds out that microfilm is inescapable for finding his ancestors.

Cynthia Van Ness is a local history and genealogy librarian in Buffalo, New York. Visit her Web site.