During a rare bout with insomnia last month, I spent a fruitless thirty minutes wandering around my house looking for something to read. I keep books in five of the nine rooms in my ranch-style home, and as I am a re-reader, I thought it would be easy to pick out something to sit with until I could get back to sleep. It wasn’t. I waded through the volumes on my shelves, from American art pottery to classic British mystery to an oversized book of photos of the iconic faces of the 20th century. Then I gave up, went back to bed, and mentally rattled off a list of the fifty states until I dozed off (that’s my version of counting sheep).

While on this book hunt I kept saying to myself, “I wish the library was open. I know I could find something there.” So I got to thinking: wouldn’t it be great if places like libraries, bookstores and museums were open twenty-four hours a day, like supermarkets and coffee shops? Why aren’t they, I wondered? Why are some places or activities considered so important that they’re always accessible, and others are not?

Some of these 24/7 locales are essential in modern times, of course. If you run out of disposable diapers at three a.m. you’re going to be grateful that the local Safeway has its lights on. If the only time you have to work on your resume is when the swing shift at your current crummy job is over, then access to a Kinko’s is a blessing. And then there are the obvious virtues of the all-night donut shop.

But who’s to say we don’t all need an occasional dose of culture in the wee hours? I realize that museums and libraries aren’t in it for the money, so round-the-clock accessibility is not a matter of maximizing profits as it is for the local Krispy Kreme. But putting aside money matters, imagine the benefits of knowing you can get in your car any time and end up in front of a Van Gogh. Or a dinosaur skeleton. Or simply check out a book at two a.m. because you can’t sleep and you need something to read.

There’s also the fun factor. You might know what it’s like to be in the frozen food section of a supermarket at four in the morning (depressing), but a museum after hours is something quite different.

A few years ago I helped put together a conference at the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. It was held in one of the museum’s meeting rooms, and as coordinator it was my job to get there early and organize everything.

I arrived at 7:30 a.m., was whisked inside by the security guard, quickly set up the room and then had a half hour to spare before the museum officially opened . I decided to take a look at the exhibitions.

Our meeting room was near the hall where the dioramas of Native American and global indigenous life were exhibited. I started there, stepping into the darkish hall with its gentle lighting. I was a lifelong visitor to this museum. This was familiar turf.. The human and animal figures were just as I remembered them: shiny brown-toned plastic faces, hair that looked real, animals with oversized fangs. But as I continued to amble around the exhibits I began to feel strange. I couldn’t immediately identify why, but then it dawned on me: I was absolutely alone. It was just me and a very distant security guard, and what I felt walking through those halls and looking at the Eskimo and Miwok exhibits was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

Without the distraction of background chatter, screaming kids and voices over the P.A.system, without the presence of fellow visitors and wandering guards, the exhibits came alive. The artifacts had more meaning, the story each display was telling me was more urgent. It was as though only in silence and solitude could I hear what they needed me to know. Alone, I was able to grasp what had been important about their way of life, and feel the sadness that it no longer existed. If more people could have this kind of experience in a museum, I think we’d all look at history and culture with very different eyes.

So what does it say about our society that we can feed our bodies at all hours but nourish our souls only from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.(Closed Mondays)? If you’re restless or cranky or scared at three in the morning, you’re going to want what will make you feel good. I believe art and culture and literature will always make you feel good – better, even, than a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

I know it’s not going to happen, but I think the all-night museum is a great idea. Such a place would be the intellectual equivalent of a 7-11, and its very existence would be a statement that art and beauty are as essential to life as a carton of milk. Nourishment, after all, comes in many forms.

LYNN DOWNEY is a California writer, historian and archivist whose work has appeared in Pacific Historian, The San Francisco Chronicle and Sportswear International, among other publications. She is currently at work on a memoir of 1970s San Francisco.