I love used book stores. They have an allure that new book stores just don't have. There's a particular feel to the air and a familiar musty smell that hints of the presence of the souls of the authors whose work haphazardly fills the shelves.
Some of the books are like new - purchased, given, never read, unappreciated, and rejected....eventually finding their way to the dusty shelves next to other books that are waiting to be rediscovered..
Other books are well worn, oft read, beloved, dog-eared, sometimes with highlighting or margin notes that echo the story of someone's interaction with them.
Even the Borders and Barnes & Nobles of the world with their corporate, sanitized feel, coffee bars, listening stations and plush chairs can't compete with the old soul of the used book store. They have their own allure, of course, found in size and the sheer wonder of having almost any book you could ever want at your fingertips. It's also true that there are times when you want a current reference volume of something, or you're looking for something in particular that you want and need and you shop like you're on a Special Forces mission rather than an explorer, a seeker of something you don't even know yet.
There are several ways to approach the wealth of a used book store. My husband is a collector. He goes straight for the section where he will most likely find the books he collects, and then he browses, carefully checking every book on every shelf, taking down some copies for examination, whispering with elation when he finds a treasure. Interesting how we whisper in bookstores, isn't it? Some people believe it's because we have been conditioned to whisper in libraries and bookstores remind us of libraries (it must be all those books). I think it's because we intuitively understand the sacredness of knowledge and recording and sharing that knowledge.
My husband's "collector approach" to used book stores baffles me because I am a browser. I understand how much you miss if you target a particular section. So I slowly glide between the shelves, getting a feel for what's there and listening for something to speak to me, and stopping when something catches my eye or my spirit. When I find something special, I don't announce my find (even in a whisper) because it's a quiet moment of personal discovery for me. It's between me and the author of that book and the spirit that brought us together. I flip through it, read some of it (although I have been known to read entire books standing between the shelves in used book stores), and then hold it for awhile. Sometimes I'll walk around with it while I continue to browse. Sometimes I'll gently return it to it's place for someone else to discover.
Some books have notes in them that make wonder about the previous owners. "Dear Lizzie, This book changed my life. I hope it changes yours, too. Love, Mary" How did this book change Mary's life? Did Lizzie read it? Did Lizzie love it like Mary did? How did it end up here? Are Lizzie and Mary still alive? Did this book change their relationship? These are two women I will never meet, but we are connected at this moment by this book in my hand. I decide to take the book with me and read it, and now we are connected by ideas that span time and space, and I feel I know a little something about Mary now. No big box corporate book store ever did that for me.
Ok, maybe you're not a bibliophile like I am, and all of this sounds silly to you. If so, I challenge you to go to a used book store and browse a bit. Don't go when you have somewhere else to be or when you have small children with you begging to leave. Go when you have some time to experience it fully. Walk up and down the rows. Look. Smell. Touch. Wait until a book entices you to pull it off the shelf, and then take it down and open it expectantly. Look for what it has to tell you, to add to your experience in this life, to share with someone else. Feel the history of the place - the intersection of yesterday and today. Then pick something to take with you so the experience will touch tomorrow, too.
You'll be back.
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