What does a book smell like?
Although I live in the city and my behaviors and tendencies don't usually stray from the urbanite norms, it took a casual stop by a used bookstore this afternoon to realize that the remnants of my suburban upbringing has, perhaps, been permanently etched into my DNA. For example, Starbucks, rows of magazines on every subject imaginable, larger-than-a-record-store-sized music section with listening stations and anemic shoppers sauntering between the bookshelves -- that's how I'd describe a typical bookstore these days, but sadly, I assume that it's no different than a little child growing up in this day and age, describing a WalMart when I ask her to describe for me a grocery store.
I had a half an hour to kill before my movie ("Perfume" -- more on that later), and when I spotted a small bookstore -- Bookman's Corner (2959 N. Clark St.) -- just around the corner from where I parked, I remembered that my roommate was looking for a cheap copy of Digital Fortress (by Dan Brown of Da Vinci Code fame). I scurried across the street, surveying the dusty storefront with decades-old newspaper clippings and peeling signs with a growing doubt, and I knew instinctly as soon as I entered the shop that I would most likely not find Digital Fortress here, just as surely as I'd know that I'd find a copy of the book as I walk past the double doors to enter, say, a Borders.
Books of various states of use and wear were stacked up from floor to the rafters , where four rows of plywood bookshelves were crammed into a tiny space where the ceiling felt taller than how wide its floor space would be -- I think my livingroom area is bigger than the entire Bookman's Corner, actually. Although there are hand-scribbled signs in attempt to apply categorization to the heaps, the books were crammed into every available nooks, often in double rows (so that you'll have to sift between the first row to see the titles behind them) and on floors, window sills, in front of the proprietor's counter (actually, if you can imagine, the entire counter was buried in books). Most of the paperbacks had cracked spines and pages yellowed with age, making the new volumes immediately visible for their white pages and crisp edges. It felt as if I'd more likely find an obscure book on tai-chi meditation from the 70's than a lesser-known title from a contemporary best selling author. The place was a lot more crowded than I thought -- there were readers and seekers almost standing shoulder to shoulder (actually, just unloading the passengers out of a full van here would most like achieve this effect), but by the serious titles they were holding in their arms, I felt less and less confident that I'll find Digital Fortress here.
In the end, I never found Digital Fortress -- or any of Dan Brown's books for that matter -- but shuffling through endless piles of books, pulling down any volumes that seemed interesting, finding obscure works by well known authors or books on anachronistic interests... just the whole experience of digging through books... was something I haven't done in a very long while. In fact, I cannot recall the last time I purchased a book that was not something recommended to me by a friend, lauded by critics, something on NY Times or Business Week bestseller list, or received more than 4 out of 5 stars in the customer feedback section in Amazon.com website. For me, picking a title and purchasing a book has been, for the longest time, not much different than getting a thorougly-researched TV in Best Buy or Consumer Reports recommended humidifier in WalMart -- something based on most-bang-for-buck (in books, there's a 'time spent on reading' component as well) type economics calculation than out of sheer interest and curiousity. I end up getting exactly what I want, often at the most reasonable price -- but I seemed to have completely robbed myself of potentials for joy of discovering something delightfully surprising or unexpectedly stimulating. After all, even a quick browse through a list of readers' comments on a website usually tells me what awaits for me when the book arrives from Amazon.com
So, instead of Digital Fortress, I ended up finding a few other titled and walked out with A Widow for One Year by John Irving, Michael Crichton's Timeline, and Great Short Works of Mark Twain from the 60's by a publisher that no longer exist today. Final price: $5.40. Total. In fact, there's no price tag and no cash register -- the proprietor figures out the price by the what appears to be acquired date and initial price scribbled on the margin of the first leaf (all by the same handwritting) on a small legal pad, sort through the pile of random plastic and paper bags (all used, too) behind the counter, and put the books in a small plastic bag from Jewel.
I remember that as a kid, I used to spend hours in the local community library like a little hound dog left unleashed in a well stocked hunting ground, and I'd walk out of the library with a huge pile of books, feeling like an adventurer returning with the bounties from the exploration, eager to return home to savor them all. As I rushed over to the movie theater with my bag of books danging happily from my fingers, for a few minutes this afternoon, I remembered what I used to feel like on those trips to the library.
Only old, used books have a scent. New books... they smell like Borders.
I had a half an hour to kill before my movie ("Perfume" -- more on that later), and when I spotted a small bookstore -- Bookman's Corner (2959 N. Clark St.) -- just around the corner from where I parked, I remembered that my roommate was looking for a cheap copy of Digital Fortress (by Dan Brown of Da Vinci Code fame). I scurried across the street, surveying the dusty storefront with decades-old newspaper clippings and peeling signs with a growing doubt, and I knew instinctly as soon as I entered the shop that I would most likely not find Digital Fortress here, just as surely as I'd know that I'd find a copy of the book as I walk past the double doors to enter, say, a Borders.
Books of various states of use and wear were stacked up from floor to the rafters , where four rows of plywood bookshelves were crammed into a tiny space where the ceiling felt taller than how wide its floor space would be -- I think my livingroom area is bigger than the entire Bookman's Corner, actually. Although there are hand-scribbled signs in attempt to apply categorization to the heaps, the books were crammed into every available nooks, often in double rows (so that you'll have to sift between the first row to see the titles behind them) and on floors, window sills, in front of the proprietor's counter (actually, if you can imagine, the entire counter was buried in books). Most of the paperbacks had cracked spines and pages yellowed with age, making the new volumes immediately visible for their white pages and crisp edges. It felt as if I'd more likely find an obscure book on tai-chi meditation from the 70's than a lesser-known title from a contemporary best selling author. The place was a lot more crowded than I thought -- there were readers and seekers almost standing shoulder to shoulder (actually, just unloading the passengers out of a full van here would most like achieve this effect), but by the serious titles they were holding in their arms, I felt less and less confident that I'll find Digital Fortress here.
In the end, I never found Digital Fortress -- or any of Dan Brown's books for that matter -- but shuffling through endless piles of books, pulling down any volumes that seemed interesting, finding obscure works by well known authors or books on anachronistic interests... just the whole experience of digging through books... was something I haven't done in a very long while. In fact, I cannot recall the last time I purchased a book that was not something recommended to me by a friend, lauded by critics, something on NY Times or Business Week bestseller list, or received more than 4 out of 5 stars in the customer feedback section in Amazon.com website. For me, picking a title and purchasing a book has been, for the longest time, not much different than getting a thorougly-researched TV in Best Buy or Consumer Reports recommended humidifier in WalMart -- something based on most-bang-for-buck (in books, there's a 'time spent on reading' component as well) type economics calculation than out of sheer interest and curiousity. I end up getting exactly what I want, often at the most reasonable price -- but I seemed to have completely robbed myself of potentials for joy of discovering something delightfully surprising or unexpectedly stimulating. After all, even a quick browse through a list of readers' comments on a website usually tells me what awaits for me when the book arrives from Amazon.com
So, instead of Digital Fortress, I ended up finding a few other titled and walked out with A Widow for One Year by John Irving, Michael Crichton's Timeline, and Great Short Works of Mark Twain from the 60's by a publisher that no longer exist today. Final price: $5.40. Total. In fact, there's no price tag and no cash register -- the proprietor figures out the price by the what appears to be acquired date and initial price scribbled on the margin of the first leaf (all by the same handwritting) on a small legal pad, sort through the pile of random plastic and paper bags (all used, too) behind the counter, and put the books in a small plastic bag from Jewel.
I remember that as a kid, I used to spend hours in the local community library like a little hound dog left unleashed in a well stocked hunting ground, and I'd walk out of the library with a huge pile of books, feeling like an adventurer returning with the bounties from the exploration, eager to return home to savor them all. As I rushed over to the movie theater with my bag of books danging happily from my fingers, for a few minutes this afternoon, I remembered what I used to feel like on those trips to the library.
Only old, used books have a scent. New books... they smell like Borders.
posted by choongster at 10:49 PM
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