Strahov has been a Premonstratensian monastery since 1143, and its library is two rooms built more than a century apart. The Theological Hall of the early 1670s is low and white, a barrel vault of curling stucco with astronomical globes standing between the shelves and a wooden wheel that let a reader keep several books open at once. The Philosophical Hall, finished in the 1790s, is the opposite: walnut cases two storeys high, brought in from a monastery that had been shut down, under a ceiling fresco Franz Anton Maulbertsch painted at seventy in about six months.
The two halls hold some 60,000 volumes between them; the library as a whole runs to roughly 200,000, with its manuscripts and incunabula kept apart in a treasury. Visitors do not walk in — both rooms are roped at the doorway, so the whole visit is two views straight down an aisle at painted sky, marbled columns and shelves receding into warm brown. The corridor connecting them is a cabinet of curiosities: narwhal tusks, dried sea creatures, whale jaws, assembled when natural history and wonder were the same subject.