A recent issue of the Houston Chronicle (July 2022) had an essay by Chris Vognar entitled: Bookstores Offer a Sacred Space to Find Comfort. His premise captured me, although he had little to say, specifically, about the sacredness of bookstores he has known. Rather, his focus was on the demise of independent bookstores, especially during the economic collapse associated with the COVID epidemic, when so many small businesses could no longer sustain themselves. His words, however, led me to my own reflection on bookstores, which, at times in my life, I have found to be, indeed, sacred places dedicated to a spiritual existence beyond the mundane. There have been many chapels, many oratorios, in my academic life. A college town cannot exist without at least one place to congregate with others or to isolate oneself for meditation in a hidden alcove.
Of course, there is also the opposite, warehouse-like space for the sale of required textbooks. In these cathedrals, the seeker’s quest is to locate the desired course number on the small card taped to metal racks holding all of the books the professor wants students to purchase before their class begins. The only true decision is whether to buy a new copy or one which, like Harry Potter’s potions manual, has been underlined and annotated by someone who may have added either helpful guidelines or markers toward erroneous bypaths. Being enrolled in science courses, I chose new editions in which to preserve my own personal notes to be kept for reference years later.
I seldom sold my texts back to the bookstore at the end of the term. In fact, the basic biochemistry book I used during graduate school may still be found tucked away in the bottom of my cabinet of collegiate relics. Yes, the storage of old books is a significant problem when they are treated like Jewish scripture which cannot be destroyed, but only buried for discovery centuries later.
Over the years, I’ve tried to reduce the number of bookcases containing editions purchased long ago and seldom reread. Moving has been helpful, since old, un-reread books have been the first items for disposal. All else becomes easier to eliminate, once the decision has been made to downsize my library.
When I began my academic life, my books were shelved on wooden boards supported by red bricks which could be reassembled to conform to the height of their content. When we lived in Oregon, our old house had a study with build-in bookshelves lining three walls. They were completely occupied by books, not with any extraneous do-dads.
Most college towns have at least two sacred spaces dedicated to quiet contemplation of the written word. There is the on-campus bookstore devoted mainly to orthodox studies. In the town, itself, there may be a small shrine for solitude among the hard- and soft-backs gathered for perusal. In most of them, the icons are arranged in denominational order, fiction or nonfiction, with subcategories of romance or action, sci-fi or reality, novels or poetry as well as biological or physical sciences, politics or economics, and mathematics or astrology.
However, my favorite bookstore had its unique method for alluring consumers. The Odyssey Bookstore in South Hadley Massachusetts, the site of Mount Holyoke College, organized its shelves according to the names of the publishing houses. If the exploring customer did not know the name of the publisher of the sought-after book, the first stop was made at the desk holding copies of the Latest Books in Print. Having consulted this oracle, the supplicant would move on to the underground cavern of books in search of the section housing all of the works of the given publisher. Within each publishing house section, the books, themselves, were arranged according to authors.
On the surface, this may seem to be an inefficient way to organize books. However, for the store it was a magnificent way to sell them! Instead of being held captive in a section called, for example, Medieval History, the reader would be confronted by books on every imaginable topic. The Odyssey’s goal was for the explorer to pass through strange lands and, perhaps, spot an exotic species which would entice a purchase that would never have been made if he had been on a routine quest for a previously identified creature. Although I was frequently enthralled by this strategy, I usually did not succumb to it, because of another condition I had, “Option Glut.”
I enjoy wandering through bookstores, spotting titles of editions I would enjoy reading. There are few areas of knowledge that do not intrigue my interest. Every offering I see in a bookstore appears to have potential for becoming a favorite way to spend several hours of my life. The mere size of the collection of books surrounding me leads to this condition of “glut.” Having too many choices, I’m unable to make any choice at all! I look. I am enticed. I walk away. I may not even buy the book which I had planned to purchase when I came into the shop.
However, this condition of “Option Glut” has not significantly reduced the number of books I have bought over the last six decades! Even with downsizing, our current apartment has five large bookcases, two in my room and one each in Karen’s room, in our bedroom and in our living room.
When COVID 19 changed our life patterns, I made the decision to reduce the size of my personal collection. Although, upon moving to Eagle’s Trace, I gave a bookcase of theological writings to the library at St Mary’s Seminary, and Karen made similar donations of her spirituality books to The Cenacle and to Eagle’s Trace, we still have books overflowing our storage capabilities. However, my current protocol requires that I read, or at least scan, every book before I retire it.
I must admit there may be a deep psychological problem associated with a reduction of my personal library. Many years ago, I told myself that, before I died, I’d read every book I own. This self-vow may have led to my not finishing a number of books I’ve started to read! At the same time, I may fear that reducing the number of books I own may decrease the number of years left in my life. I also believe a comfortable recliner in my apartment is even a better place for contemplation than a bookshop with its own soft chair. Thus, I remain a bibliophile and eschew becoming a bibliophobe, regardless of the vow I made long ago!