The Old Bookstore That Stocked Living Things, Not 'Products'
Published December 26, 2007
There was a spavined old couch and two wing-chairs in an alcove in the back, and the not-quite-old proprietor didn't seem to mind if you planted yourself back there and whiled the entire day away with a book, even if you didn't buy the book afterward. If he knew you, he'd come back and offer you coffee. If you wandered about for a bit, he'd call out to ask if you were just browsing or looking for something in particular.
In my memory, this place exists as the perfect bookstore. Most of the volumes in my own library that I really treasure — the fine editions, the hard-to-find, the out-of-print and the obscure — I bought at that store. The proprietor introduced me to books and authors I might never have known otherwise: Frederick Exley's A Fan's Notes, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men by James Agee, Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead (which he cordially detested but thought I might like), and several others. I spent many long hours sitting in those musty old wingback chairs, poring over some book I had bought or meant to buy or couldn't afford but still wanted to read. It was a special kind of heaven that only other bookworms can probably understand.
And then the shop went out of business and a large part of the pleasure I took in buying books went along with it.
It's obvious enough why the business failed. There were never more than three or four people in the store at a time. It was far out on the edge of town in a strip mall that had seen better days. On one side was a shop that sold car parts; on the other was an empty storefront with a "For Lease" sign yellowing in the window. The sign out front was so small that you couldn't see it from the street. The sidewalk was crumbling and weeds sprouted in the cracks. And the not-quite-old man who ran the place didn't seem to care much if you bought books or not. He seemed to be happy enough just to sit there among his books and pass on a little of what he knew.
It was a place that was doomed to die from the moment the doors opened. I knew that. When the store closed, I shouldn't have been surprised. And yet I was. I felt that something essentially good in the world had been lost.
![The Complete [Compleat] Angler of Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton: extensively embellished with engravings on copper and wood, from original paintings and drawings, by first-rate artists. To which are added, an Introductory Essay; The Linnaean arrangement of the various river fish delineated in the work; and illustrative notes](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41AGyyvP4mL._SY90_.jpg "The Complete [Compleat] Angler of Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton: extensively embellished with engravings on copper and wood, from original paintings and drawings, by first-rate artists. To which are added, an Introductory Essay; The Linnaean arrangement of the various river fish delineated in the work; and illustrative notes")
- The Old Bookstore That Stocked Living Things, Not 'Products'
- Published: December 26, 2007
- Type: Opinion
- Section: Books
- Filed Under: Culture: Personal History, Books: History, Books: Business
- Writer: Monty Manley
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When I lived in Bloomington Indiana there was a lovely bookstore in the town square kind of like the one you describe. It had books piled up everywhere. New books, old books, blue books, bold books. Books of every sort.
The owner could talk intelligently on just about anything and seemed to know every book in existence and just where it was in his shop, even though there seemed to be no order to the store at all.
I speak in the past tense, but I'm quite sure it is still there, but I no longer am.
Your article took me back to my hometown of Wabash, Indiana where there still stands the lovely old bookstore that I haunted nearly every Saturday from open to close when I was a teenager. I always felt happiest nestled in a ragged, overstuffed chair that had been crammed into one of many corners of the old place, with a good read or when just browsing the many shelves of written pleasure. The best times were when the owner would allow me to go to the basement of the shop and look around. Even though I loathed creepy old basements, this one was a wonderland of books! I was always broke in those days because I spent my allowance on as many paperback novels as I could afford.
In later years, while working at a job I hated (which happened to be directly across the street from the bookshop) I mosied in during an afternoon break, looked the owner in the eye and said, "If you ever need any help in here, give me a call." I handed her a slip with my number and left. She called me in less than 20 minutes.
The next few years I spent blissfully knee deep (literally) in the books that I love. In those few years I learned a lot about books, authors, publishers, etc...I often said that I would have worked for free, or for book money.
Today, I have since moved to another state and my taste in reading has changed considerably, but my bookshelves still contain many volumes from the book store of my past. I treasure them like children. I am still searching for a book shop to haunt in my area, but I know that none will ever take the place of the book shop of my youth.
I've still never found that bookstore, but my first public library was that magical. And, it was still that magic place in the years I was Library Director there. I've moved on, and the library has grown, added computers, and is no longer that small, intimate place. But, then, I don't think I know my books or public the way I did then. I was a hands-on librarian who knew the books by location, and my patrons by name and interest. Unfortunately, there are fewer and fewer public libraries like that, just as there are fewer magic bookstores.
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I'm lucky enough to still have one of these nearby, and I buy things in there that I don't really want, just in the hope of keeping it in business.