The Future Library
Top Shelf is an ongoing series bringing together knowledge from extraordinary archives, libraries, and cultural caretakers around the world and their innovative approaches to collection management and connection building to help you with the things and people you take care of.
The Future Library project in Oslo represents one of the most ambitious long-term cultural preservation efforts ever attempted. At its heart: one thousand trees growing in Nordmarka forest, destined to become paper for a special anthology that won't be printed until 2114. Between now and then, one writer each year contributes a text that remains sealed and unread, held in trust for readers not yet born. It's a living artwork that demands both ecological stewardship and institutional memory across an entire century.
As cultural heritage professionals, we're constantly balancing the tension between preservation and access, between caring for collections today while ensuring they survive for future generations. The weight of stewarding materials for people we'll never meet is both humbling and overwhelming.
I had the honor to interview the incredible Anne Beate Hovind from the Future Library project as part of a new series I am calling "Top Shelf" which brings together knowledge from extraordinary archives, libraries, and cultural caretakers around the world and their innovative approaches to collection management and connection building to help you with the things and people you take care of.
FL: How has working on this project changed your own relationship with time and legacy?
ABH: Working on Future Library has gently changed how I think about time. I’ve gone from thinking in years to thinking in generations. It’s humbling to know that what we’re creating today is for people we’ll never meet. Legacy, for me, has become less about permanence and more about care—leaving something behind with no expectation of recognition. This project has taught me to plan with trust, and to nurture something I won’t see completed. My role is to care for the forest, protect the archive, and hold the values that shape the project. In the end, we’re not just passing on 100 unread manuscripts—we’re offering a way of imagining the future with tenderness and hope.
FL: What have you learned about humans from asking them to create something they'll never see completed?
ABH: I’ve learned that, at our core, humans share more than what divides us. No matter where we come from, we seem to carry a deep need to be part of something larger than ourselves—something that lasts. When we ask authors to write for readers they’ll never meet, they respond with generosity and curiosity. That tells me we still believe in continuity, in future readers, in a shared humanity that extends beyond our lifetimes.
It’s also shown me that people are hungry for meaning right now. In a fast-paced world, the chance to slow down and create something timeless feels deeply grounding. There’s something beautiful about contributing to a story you’ll never see the end of. It speaks to hope, trust, and a quiet kind of care—a reminder that what connects us is often simple, human, and enduring.
FL: Is there value in keeping tension between transparency and mystery when building public support for this project?
ABH: For me the secrecy isn’t about exclusion, but about creating space for wonder. In a world where almost everything is immediately accessible, holding something back feels rare—and meaningful. Transparency is important for building trust, especially in a project that spans generations. But mystery does something different: it invites imagination. It lets people dream, project, and connect in their own way. A balance between openness and the unknown gives the project life, now and into the future.
FL: How do you plan for institutional knowledge transfer as trustees age out over the next 100 years?
ABH: Long-term continuity is absolutely essential to us and Future Library. To help safeguard that, we’ve established a formal structure: a dedicated foundation with a board of trustees, and a 100-year agreement with the City of Oslo to protect both the forest and the Silent Room at Deichman Library. These provide a solid framework for continuity. But structure alone isn’t enough. What truly matters is the transmission of values—the care, openness, and sense of responsibility that give the project life. We’re creating a living archive that spans not just physical and digital records, but also the intangible: conversations, memories, practices, and relationships that are harder to document, but just as important to preserve.
That said, this is hard work. It demands long-term stamina and a willingness to take risks. We’re building something that we’ll never see completed, and that requires trust, flexibility, and the courage to act without certainty. There’s no clear roadmap for how to carry a project like this across a century, so we’re learning as we go, and doing our best to pass along not only instructions, but a mindset of care, adaptability, and commitment. We see knowledge transfer less as a handover of tools, and more as the sharing of a cultural and ethical responsibility—something that future trustees can shape and carry forward in their own time.
FL: Do you consider unforeseen disasters when thinking about this project?
ABH: Yes, absolutely, when you’re working with a 100-year horizon, uncertainty is part of the landscape. We think about climate change, political shifts, technological changes, and institutional fragility. That’s why resilience is built into the project from many angles: a 100-year agreement with the City of Oslo protects the forest and Silent Room, and the archive is being developed with flexibility in mind. Still, we know we can’t plan for everything. What we can do is root the project in strong values, care, adaptability, trust and create space for future custodians to meet whatever challenges come with their own tools and wisdom. We do our best, knowing that part of the work is letting go of control while holding on to intention.
FL: What's the most challenging aspect of making decisions for people who haven't been born yet?
ABH: It’s accepting that we can’t predict their world, only try to send something meaningful into it. That requires humility—making space for future change without trying to control it. We can’t future-proof the project, but we can future-prepare it.
FL: How do you garner support and maintain engagement for something so far in the future?
ABH: It’s a real and ongoing challenge. In many ways, it feels like being a kind of chaos pilot navigating uncertainty, adapting to time, place, and shifting circumstances. There’s no fixed formula for how to hold public attention over a century, so the work requires constant reflection and renewal.
At the same time, it’s essential to hold onto the enduring elements, the things that don’t change. The annual handover ceremony in the forest, the authors planting their presence, the quiet rhythm of the project—these rituals are our anchor. They offer people something steady and meaningful to return to, year after year.
Support comes through that combination: the fluid and the fixed, through storytelling, ritual, and a shared sense of purpose. The annual ceremonies in the forest, the presence of the authors, the slowness of it all, these create a sense of community. Even though the endpoint is distant, the experience of participating now, in the walk, the trees, the ceremony, feels immediate and real. That’s where connection begins. People want to be part of something bigger than themselves. The distance becomes a kind of promise.
FL: Do you document your processes and decisions for future trustees?
ABH: Yes, and from multiple angles. We keep detailed records of meetings, seminars, decisions, contracts, correspondence, and key milestones. We also collect visual and audiovisual material: photographs, films, and documentation of events. Even our award-winning homepage is being developed with long-term durability in mind, designed to function as a living record for the next 100 years. But it’s not just about archiving for preservation, it’s also about accessibility. We want future trustees, researchers, and others to understand not only what was done, but why. That’s why we make the material available to researchers from different disciplines, literature, art, ecology, archival science, who can help interpret and expand on the work in ways we might not yet imagine. Documentation is a way of building trust across time. It gives future caretakers the tools to make their own decisions while staying rooted in the original spirit of the project.
FL: Do you think the 100-year delay changes how authors write? What have they shared about it?
ABH: We don’t really know—that’s part of the premise. The manuscripts remain unread, even by us, so we can’t say for certain how the 100-year delay influences their writing. But from conversations with the authors, we’ve gotten glimpses. Many authors say it removes pressure to be timely or relevant. Some feel a sense of timelessness in their writing, others feel a deeper connection to future readers. There’s a stillness to it, a slowing down. Several have described it as the most emotional and intimate writing they’ve ever done. Some have said the distance frees them from the pressure to respond to the present or to please critics. Others have shared that they feel able to write more honestly or personally, almost like they’re composing a letter to the future. For some, it seems to be a deeply emotional process; for others, it’s playful or conceptual. There’s no single way to approach it.
What’s also interesting is that this experience is still evolving. As the years go by, some of the authors will still be alive when the manuscripts are finally opened. That gives the project a kind of living feedback loop. Their reflections may continue to shift over time, which means our understanding of what this delay means, for writing, for memory, for legacy, is still growing. It's not fixed. Like the forest, it’s alive and unfolding.
FL: What might this project teach other long-term cultural preservation efforts?
ABH: That preserving culture isn’t only about keeping objects safe, it’s about maintaining relationships over time. It’s about trust, imagination, and care. Future Library shows that when we create space for slowness, mystery, and meaning, people respond—not with indifference, but with deep engagement. This project reminds us that long-term thinking doesn’t have to be abstract or technical. It can be emotional, relational, even tender. And maybe that’s what cultural preservation really is: not just protecting the past, but nurturing something fragile and valuable for the future, with no guarantee, but with great belief.
Thank you so much, Anne, for this amazing conversation and for creating such a fascinating project!