On Old-Fashioned Spaces: the Independent Bookstore

When I was six or seven years old (I think), a Barnes and Noble opened on the corner of a busy street in my hometown, Fresno.  I don't remember my parents' reactions too well, but I imagine they were happy.  There must have been a few small bookstores in Fresno at the time (the lovely Fig Garden Bookstore was one of their favorites), but I guess Barnes and Noble was a big deal because of how many books it would offer.

I don't really remember the very first time I visited Barnes and Noble with my parents, but I do remember visiting it a lot.  I loved how expansive the space was, how white the walls were, how neatly the rows of shelves were organized, and at the upstairs cafe (which was not yet a Starbucks), you could get "Italian sodas," which were for us a very special treat.  There was a special sort of window seat on one side at the front of the store, and I vividly remember being read The Polar Express by my father while sitting there.  I soon decided that when I grew up, I would buy Barnes and Noble, and it would be my bookstore, and I would even sleep there, because I would love it so much.  (I had picked out a nice shelf in the travel section to sleep on).

When I started attending Powers-Ginsburg, I learned how magical libraries could be, too.  Our school library was huge, with purple carpet (the school colors were purple and gold), and books lining the walls as well as the shelves.  There was a big open space where younger students would sit on the days they visited the library and got to have the librarian read a story to them.  I was an oddball child, and I soon considered Mrs. Schafer, the librarian, to be my closest friend.  She would let me follow her around while she organized things, and often set books aside to recommend to me later.  She allowed me to check out more books than she was supposed to, knowing that I would take care of them, read them quickly, and return immediately for more.

As Barnes and Noble expanded (and Borders soon opened in the nearby River Park), I came to value the library even more.  I realize it's a common complaint to make, but the employees at the bookstores could rarely help me find what I was looking for, and never recommended books they thought I'd enjoy.  When we moved to North Fresno, we were delighted to discover a branch of the Fresno Public Library was minutes away from our house, and though its selection was limited, I faithfully visited every few weeks to stock up.  When I found a book I really loved, I'd buy it from Barnes and Noble so I could keep it forever.

When I was eleven, we moved to Oxford, Mississippi because my father was named the John and Renee Grisham Chair in Creative Writing for that year at Ole Miss.  The first day that we arrived, a writer from the English department, Dan Williams, was waiting to greet us in the house we would be living in, which was, incidentally, across the street from William Faulkner's house, Rowan Oak.  Later that day, my sister and I met Dan's daughter, Leah, and his wife, Cynthia Shearer, a writer and the curator of Rowan Oak.  Leah became a friend for life when she mentioned that she'd show us Square Books the next day.

Square Books was a bookstore started by Richard Howorth in Oxford's square in 1979.  Originally housed in one two-story building on one corner, it eventually expanded and now has several other buildings.  The building itself is lovely: it's a pinkish-ochre shade and with the small porch lining the second floor almost looks like an upscale saloon out of a Western.  The inside is bright and light.  At the front there are tables with new releases and signed author copies.  There is an upstairs part that has a small cafe (which is, mercifully, still not a Starbucks), but before you reach the second floor, there is a sort of mid-level, long landing that has children's books on it.  This became where I spent my happiest hours while we lived in Oxford.  My mother would take us there frequently, and on occasion my sister and I would walk there from our house (walking to the bookstore was a novelty we never tired of.  Not only were there not that many sidewalks in Fresno--certainly none that would take us from our house in North Fresno to the Borders in River Park--but it also wouldn't have been safe enough for us to go on our own).  The store's owners knew and recognized all of their frequent visitors, and nobody ever tried to shoo us away when we sat on the floor reading books.  Whereas many chain bookstores will ask customers to leave unless they are buying a book, Square Books allowed us to sit there for hours, even if we didn't buy the book, probably realizing that even if we didn't buy this particular book, we would nevertheless buy other books.

The whimsical second floor of Square Books

When we were living in Oxford, we traveled a bit around the South, and had the opportunity to visit other wonderful bookstores.  Lemuria in Jackson was another favorite, and we loved the mini-chain Davis-Kidd.

Although I was excited to move back home to Fresno, I felt the loss of Square Books deeply.  My middle school library was not as friendly as my elementary school one, and when I started high school, I had access to the Fresno State Library, which was helpful, but too large to provide me with the same warm environment I so missed.  In 2002, my parents bought an apartment in Krakow, Poland, and that same year we discovered what was then a lovely, tiny English-language bookstore, Massolit.  The owner was a charming, humorous guy who loved to make recommendations.  At the end of every summer, I would stock up on used books (especially books by Agatha Christie, which made the 13-hour plane ride home more bearable) at Massolit to take home.

But my most magical book experience came the year we visited my grandparents for Christmas in Indianola, Mississippi.  We were driving back and my parents decided we had made good enough time to make a big detour in the middle of Texas.  We were going to visit Archer City, home of one of my very favorite authors, Larry McMurtry.

I get the impression that Larry McMurtry is perhaps not as famous or popular as I'd always assumed he was.  When I mention his name, even to friends who are avid readers, I often get a blank stare.  Ask anyone, on the other hand, reader or not, if they know the movie Terms of Endearment, and chances are they've at least heard of it.  I read Lonesome Dove when I was in high school, and then proceeded to read The Last Picture Show, All My Friends Are Going to be Strangers, Billy the Kid, and numerous other books.  The year we went to visit Archer City, I had read almost everything McMurtry had published at that point.  I loved The Last Picture Show, because for all its bleakness, it was one of the few books I'd read that seemed to be set in a place not unlike where I was growing up.  Fresno is, of course, a lot bigger than Archer City, but in comparison to big cities I'd visited, it felt like a small town.  And it sometimes felt hopeless and impossible to escape.  I was thrilled to get to visit the city and try to pick out where Jacy's parents might have lived or where the pool hall was or where Genevieve might have parked her car before heading into the cafe to work her late shifts.  Archer City was exactly like what you'd picture if you read the novel.  Although it was beautiful, it managed to be simultaneously small and vast.  It felt a bit lifeless and oh-so-still.  But the smallness was also beautiful, and I cried when we drove past the vacant theater.

The Royal Theater in Archer City, TX

The highlight of the trip, of course, was visiting Larry McMurtry's four bookstores, a collection of stores known as Booked Up.  (I was saddened to see this article awhile back: Keeping the Last Bookshop Alive).  Unlike so many other bookstores, none of these had a coffee shop attached, and none of them sold cutesy bookmarks or mugs or magnets.  There were only books, but so, so many of them.  Imagine the Beast's library in the Disney film Beauty and the Beast; now imagine that same library, but in a big, warehouse-like room in Texas.

Larry McMurtry stocking books in Booked Up

Now I live in Boston, and have the luck of having many wonderful independent bookstores to choose from: Brookline Booksmith, the Harvard Book Store (my favorite, and not to be confused with Harvard's bookstore, the Coop), Porter Square Books, Newtonville Books, and The Oasis.  But for a time, I found myself guiltily going into the Coop to buy books.  It was right next to my work and it inevitably had what I was looking for and it was cheap.  But then I read George Packer's article on Amazon's monopoly on publishing (Cheap Words: George Packer) This made me decide never to buy a book from Amazon, never ever again.  Right after that, I got to go to the Southern Voices festival in Alabama with my dad.  Ann Patchett was the keynote speaker, and she finished her presentation with a plea to all the readers in the audience.  She reminded us that people often talk of themselves in the passive voice, saying we've been forced by Amazon/Barnes and Noble/WalMart/whoever to buy products from them because they're cheaper.  We do actually have a choice, she said.  Maybe for some items, those extra $2.00 you save are important.  But if you really love books, and you don't want Amazon to dictate what gets written, you can choose to buy books from your local independent bookstores.

And I think she is right.  I've had numerous, non-book-loving people patiently explain to me how behind the times the book world is, and how in fact real, printed books are about to go completely out of fashion.  I've seen Facebook comments about how wonderful it is that Amazon allows everybody in the world to self-publish, because, of course, everyone can write a great book.  I am realistic enough to realize that literature is never again going to have the respected place in the world it used to.  But I am also optimistic enough to realize we don't need to despair just yet.  My love of books started early, and each time I recollect happy afternoons spent sitting in small, unique bookstores, I feel re-inspired to continue giving those places my business.  I may not be able to save small bookstores all on my own (although I do read a lot), but I think there are enough book-lovers in the world that we might be able to save our favorite books and bookshops.  And if that's old-fashioned, who cares?