A friend was lamenting to me about the closing of a Border’s Bookstore this morning. While I have never been a fan of big chain stores, or Border’s in particular, it got me thinking. For those unacquainted, Border’s is a large chain bookstore that deals in books and music, and hosts some readings, etc. to give it more of a community feel. This particular store was located in Boston’s Downtown Crossing, an area notably devoid of charm and host to a dizzying array of fast food joints, department stores, shoes stores, and electronics outlets. It is probably a safe bet to say that the Border’s was the most elegant store in the area. Yet the closing of this big box bookstore got me to thinking about the nature of the book in general, and whether or not it was an endangered species much like the typewriter that first facilitated writing with ease.
Since I was old enough to read, a book has always filled me with wonder. I distinctly remember my first library card, eagerly consuming the works of Beverly Cleary and then C.S. Lewis. While other kids were out playing, much to the chagrin of my parents and later myself (I was the fat kid until I discovered basketball), I was most likely found reading a book. A naturally shy and introverted kid, worlds opened up to me and friends that were painfully hard for me to make were made within the pages of each book I read. I remember always reading more slowly towards the end, not wanting the story to end, and then eagerly returning and checking out another book. Fiction, travel, culture — you name it — I was interested in them all. Years before I ever stood in the shadows of Notre Dame or walked along the Thames, through books I had already traveled the world.
As I got older, this carefully cultivated love of a good book grew into the love of a good bookstore. It wasn’t enough to simply check out the object of my affections. I now needed ownership. This passion peaked when I attended Boston College, and was fortunate enough to be paired with a roommate who loved a good book as much as I did. Although his tastes leaned more towards history and I was more of a literature man, this was no object as we were set free in the single greatest city of bookstores in America.
To say Boston (and by extension Cambridge) was a cornucopia of bookstores in the year 1990 would be an understatement. With it’s wealth of colleges and universities, Boston probably had nearly as many bookstores as bars, and great bookstores. Not the antiseptic bookstores of the strip mall, but bookstore located in basements and small alleyways. Used bookstores and academic bookstores. Bookstores dedicated solely to one genre like poetry or mysteries. Stores that has a certain smell; a mustiness that smelled like the collective wisdom of an entire culture. Upon entering a store like this my lungs would relax in the same manner as a smoker as I took a deep drag. A peacefulness would wash over my body. I can still recreate that feeling in my mind when I feel stressed.
The proprietors of these stores were also always curiosities. Like the ex-pats that sat along the Seine in Parisian cafes following WWI, these men and women always had a wild an unkempt look about them. They were most often surly, crusty individuals who worked purely on the basis of love. The dollar I paid for a copy of Absalom, Absalom certainly never made them rich. They were part of the character is much as the building and the books themselves, irreplaceable fixtures from a time long gone.
And the books themselves; I almost forgot. Rarely did we, as poor college students go to the new bookstores, favoring the used stores that dotted the streets of Cambridge radiating out from Harvard Square. We would spend hours going from store to store with our meager allowances, occasionally buying, but often just browsing. Like I said, they never got rich on us. The attraction of course was the books. First the smell hit you as you opened the door. Like the smell of a hickory fire in the winter, it had a certain comfort to it that is indescribable. We were ineluctably drawn to the basement stores, where this was even more prevalent. Fanning out in the aisles, we would carefully study the stacks until something caught our eye. Then pure excitement. That first touch, soft, with a sublime velvety feeling, like touching a woman’s cheek or hair, the pages of the well-worn book had that instant jolt of excitement mixed with calming comfort. Often the books would be inscribed with a name, a clue to previous ownership and the lineage of the said tome. There was a feeling of connectedness, as if we were the recipients of wisdom being passed down throughout the ages. It was almost impossible not to take home at least one old paperback during our travels, and I can safely say I still have them all, even the one’s I never read.
Which brings me back to the present, and Border’s. The fact that any bookstore is shutting down is troubling, but even more troubling when it is a large chain. If the big boys can’t make it, what hope does that hold out for the small independents. In two cities I hold close to my heart, New York and New Orleans, there exists Three Lives Booksellers and the Faulkner House Books, which I fear for on a daily basis. These small stores are everything a good bookstore should be. Intimate, well staffed, intelligently stocked, and friendly. Unlike some people who fear of ruining a good spot, I tell everyone I know about them, hoping to send enough business their way to stave off extinction for another day. Where others are excited about the Kindle and other readers, I am fearful that sooner rather than later print will become a thing of the past. Instead of turning pages, reading will become one monotonous scroll. All the culture that goes along with reading will be lost as well, bookmarks and bookshelves, and maybe even the very term bookworm. That well worn feeling will also be lost, as everything will be in a state of constant newness. No more dog-eared pages or underlined passages, or falling asleep with the book open on your chest. The smell of aged wisdom gone, another step towards solipsism.
I for one do not want to see this happen. As surely as the artisans who stood in the way of industrialization were doomed to failure, I don’t expect to succeed on the large scale. I am almost certainly bound to fail. Yet, if I can keep one or two stores alive through my patronage, and preserve a little of the old ways, maybe, just maybe, they will last long enough until everything old becomes new again.
