Murray Library stands as a perversion of the academic institution, reflecting a broader shift in universities from humanistic learning to corporate efficiency.

Murray Library was never a place I loved, but it was where I got things done. When I decided to stop people-watching on the ground floor and force myself to focus, I would retreat to a quiet corner on the upper floors.

After staring at my computer screen until my eyes burned, I’d wander through the towering, cramped bookshelves, running my fingers along cracked spines and reading titles that promised worlds beyond these concrete walls.

There was a suffocating freedom in that moment—vast possibilities stretched out before me. Kierkegaard calls anxiety “the dizziness of freedom,” and under the hum of fluorescent lights, I felt it. The sound was imperceptible, more sensed than heard, but it was always there, seeping into my skull. The books screamed to be opened, but the moment I chose one, the others fell silent. Each path taken meant a hundred more left undiscovered, a thousand voices unheard. Hours of studying passed in a haze, the pressure of finals mounting, and I would turn to the nearest window for a reprieve. But that’s the thing about Murray—there is no reprieve.

The window is a narrow slit in the wall—a cruel joke, a token gesture toward natural light. I’d press my forehead against the glass, staring at the world beyond, and feel the creeping thought every overworked student has at least once: What if I jumped? But even that impulse was undercut by the building’s design. The window was too small. I wouldn’t fit through.

Brutalism isn’t just an aesthetic choice—it’s a form of control. It dictates how you experience space, how you move and what you feel. In the case of Murray Library, it’s a feeling of being trapped.

The imposing structure and concrete slabs make a statement—but at what cost? When the University of Saskatchewan was founded, its mission was “Serving all of Saskatchewan.” Looking at Murray, I wonder, who exactly is being served?

An Architecture of Trauma

Brutalism emerged in the post-World War II era, a time when cities lay in ruins and utopian ideals had been shattered. Architects turned to stark, geometric forms—buildings meant to embody resilience, efficiency and honesty. Global trauma left its mark in raw concrete and steel, a reaction against the acknowledgment of humanity’s fragility.

In theory, they were designed to be affordable, durable and pragmatic, making them ideal for universities. Yet in practice, these structures became cold and unfeeling, their imposing façades alienating the very people they were meant to serve. What was intended as a symbol of endurance often felt like indifference.

Brutalism, with its focus on form over function, feels at odds with the traditional mission of our university. Murray Library stands as a perversion of the academic institution, a reflection of how universities have shifted from centres of humanistic learning to resembling corporate entities. 

The Good, The Bad and The Concrete

To understand how Murray Library affects those who use it, I spoke with two students in the Regional and Urban Planning program. Xavier Perpetua, a fourth-year student, immediately described the building as “imposing.” “I’m usually a fan of Brutalism,” he said, “but this one just looks like a giant block of concrete.” He cited its verticality, lack of windows, and absence of plants as signs it was “not built to human scale,” contributing to the space’s unwelcoming feel.

Ethan Braun, another fourth-year student, found Murray visually striking but divisive. He pointed out that the building doesn’t meet the evolving needs of students. However, he mentioned the new low-sensory room as one of the best outcomes of recent renovations. Despite its flaws, Braun highlighted the library’s accessibility and bold, unique design as major strengths, even if its aesthetic appeal is more niche.

Braun also had no love for the Arts Tower. “Yeah, Arts should be demolished; it’s the ugliest building on campus. Honestly, I think that’s the only reason why Murray doesn’t get enough flak,” he said with a laugh.

As I examined Murray more closely than I ever had before, I began to appreciate certain aspects of the building. The Tyndall stone on the south façade resembled sprawling tree roots. If you look closely, you can spot fossils and shells embedded in the stone. Murray Library, however, doesn’t invite the same level of close inspection as other buildings. If you spent as much time admiring it as some do with Thorvaldson, you’d likely get some curious looks.

The recent renovations signal a potential shift away from the dehumanizing aspects of Brutalism. The addition of two large glass windows on the upper floors brings in much needed light and creates a sense of openness, countering the oppressive isolation of the original design. While a cynical view might attribute the windows to long overdue deferred renovations, I choose to see them as a step toward creating a more welcoming space for today’s students and staff. After all, if a building doesn’t consider the people inside it, is it really serving its purpose?