stood on a sliding ladder writing on a ledger but there was no one there to stop me from looking my fill.
It resembled a city, that was what struck me hardest. Not a book store but a city. The shelves were arranged in parallel rows and pressed close together like city streets, so there was hardly room to slide between. That made it crowded but in a good way, as if the city was bursting from energy and excitement. The aisles were the streets and the shelves were the buildings and the books were the inhabitants, and, as in the window, they came in all shapes and sizes, textures and colors. Too crowded and sloppy someone else might have complained but I realized the moment I entered the shop that this was its magic, that there was simply no way to display books without making them beautiful. Throw them in the air, let them fall, the effect would have been beautiful. Stack them end on end it would be beautiful. Pile them backwards. Books can not help being what they are.
It was hard, I wanted to pick up every single one and read them right there or collect an armful to bring home. I could not do this, I barely had enough money for the book I wanted, and so, not to be tempted, I went over to the woman and asked for help.
“I would like Edna St. Vincent Millay’s new volume of poetry,” I said—and being able to say this out loud made the whole trip worthwhile.
The woman wore her glasses on a chain and now she tugged them up her nose to see me sharper. I think my coat surprised her. That someone wearing a shaggy farmer’s coat could have heard of a famous poet.
She smiled kindly enough. “Do you mean A Few Figs from Thistles?”
I nodded.
“We don’t have any in yet. It’s proven very popular in New York. I did place an order.”
She must have seen my disappointment. “Wait a moment,” she said, climbing backwards down the ladder. “A new shipment came in this morning I haven’t unpacked. Novels mostly, but perhaps, just perhaps. Let me check in back.”
She was gone a long time. When she returned she carried something cupped in her hands like a baby kitten.
“One copy! It’s your lucky day, miss.”
I handed over my money and she handed it back all wrapped. “Just a moment,” she said, glancing out the window. “Let me add an extra layer for the storm.”
I wanted to touch it, open the pages, and I was sorry she had wrapped it so quickly. I had never bought a book before and decided that this must be the proper etiquette, not to look at a book until you brought it home. I thanked her for her help. The turtle-like man stood behind me with an armful of novels and I felt jealous and happy for him, too.
It should have been faster going back to the station, since I now knew my way, but the snow blew sideways and it was impossible to walk without wincing. The train pulled late into the station—the locomotive’s silhouette was nearly doubled by the snow clinging to its hood. When the conductor put down his box for me to board I heard him call out to another conductor further along the platform. “Let’s hope they have the St. Bernards ready, Mike!”
There were more passengers this time, mill girls returning for Christmas to the farms where they grew up. They were dressed in the latest fashions, trying to act sophisticated and aloof, but giggling, too, they were so excited at going home. With their gifts and bundles it was hard to find room and I had to wedge myself in near the middle of the car.
We were well out of the station before I got up the nerve to free the book from its wrapping. The jacket was simple. A Few Figs from Thistles by Edna St. Vincent Millay, with red bands boxing the title and softer red highlighting her name. The covers, when I slipped back the jacket, were blue—sea blue, I decided, though I have never seen the ocean. They had a rich texture, since especially fine cloth had been used. I ran my fingers along the front, then down the spine. The book felt good in my hands, not
It resembled a city, that was what struck me hardest. Not a book store but a city. The shelves were arranged in parallel rows and pressed close together like city streets, so there was hardly room to slide between. That made it crowded but in a good way, as if the city was bursting from energy and excitement. The aisles were the streets and the shelves were the buildings and the books were the inhabitants, and, as in the window, they came in all shapes and sizes, textures and colors. Too crowded and sloppy someone else might have complained but I realized the moment I entered the shop that this was its magic, that there was simply no way to display books without making them beautiful. Throw them in the air, let them fall, the effect would have been beautiful. Stack them end on end it would be beautiful. Pile them backwards. Books can not help being what they are.
It was hard, I wanted to pick up every single one and read them right there or collect an armful to bring home. I could not do this, I barely had enough money for the book I wanted, and so, not to be tempted, I went over to the woman and asked for help.
“I would like Edna St. Vincent Millay’s new volume of poetry,” I said—and being able to say this out loud made the whole trip worthwhile.
The woman wore her glasses on a chain and now she tugged them up her nose to see me sharper. I think my coat surprised her. That someone wearing a shaggy farmer’s coat could have heard of a famous poet.
She smiled kindly enough. “Do you mean A Few Figs from Thistles?”
I nodded.
“We don’t have any in yet. It’s proven very popular in New York. I did place an order.”
She must have seen my disappointment. “Wait a moment,” she said, climbing backwards down the ladder. “A new shipment came in this morning I haven’t unpacked. Novels mostly, but perhaps, just perhaps. Let me check in back.”
She was gone a long time. When she returned she carried something cupped in her hands like a baby kitten.
“One copy! It’s your lucky day, miss.”
I handed over my money and she handed it back all wrapped. “Just a moment,” she said, glancing out the window. “Let me add an extra layer for the storm.”
I wanted to touch it, open the pages, and I was sorry she had wrapped it so quickly. I had never bought a book before and decided that this must be the proper etiquette, not to look at a book until you brought it home. I thanked her for her help. The turtle-like man stood behind me with an armful of novels and I felt jealous and happy for him, too.
It should have been faster going back to the station, since I now knew my way, but the snow blew sideways and it was impossible to walk without wincing. The train pulled late into the station—the locomotive’s silhouette was nearly doubled by the snow clinging to its hood. When the conductor put down his box for me to board I heard him call out to another conductor further along the platform. “Let’s hope they have the St. Bernards ready, Mike!”
There were more passengers this time, mill girls returning for Christmas to the farms where they grew up. They were dressed in the latest fashions, trying to act sophisticated and aloof, but giggling, too, they were so excited at going home. With their gifts and bundles it was hard to find room and I had to wedge myself in near the middle of the car.
We were well out of the station before I got up the nerve to free the book from its wrapping. The jacket was simple. A Few Figs from Thistles by Edna St. Vincent Millay, with red bands boxing the title and softer red highlighting her name. The covers, when I slipped back the jacket, were blue—sea blue, I decided, though I have never seen the ocean. They had a rich texture, since especially fine cloth had been used. I ran my fingers along the front, then down the spine. The book felt good in my hands, not
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