Used

Every kind of book venue has its crowd, and every bibliophile has his or her purveyor of choice, although few would sniff their noses at even the tiniest of operations. I have to say that I’m not too fussy; I love all libraries and I’ll give any new book store at least one chance. Used bookshops, however, are another matter entirely.

There is a definite art to putting together a second-hand establishment, and the great ones have a mixture of dependability in terms of quality, high turnover, and a degree of chaos. The true joy behind paying one a visit is browsing and serendipitously stumbling upon a gem. It’s also thrilling to have a title in mind and then find exactly what you’re looking for on the shelf. Such a pleasure is taken for granted in chains. There is also the specific sound of creaking floors in quiet rooms which I love, and a certain ubiquitous used-but-not-unpleasant smell that most seem to possess.

Poorer operations, conversely, have had the same lingering titles sitting on the shelf since 1975. They smell all right, but musty or fungal, and nothing irritates me more than overpriced books. I don’t care much for those specializing in popular schlock fiction either.

These days I long to go used book shopping. I get the itch every couple of months, and then go and drop a ton of cash in one day. (That’s another fun thing about used books: they’re cheaper and you can cart more home with less money.) In Montreal, we don’t have one big shop, but rather, English and French clusters of smaller ones. The former is on Ste. Catherine between Atwater and Guy, and the latter, in an ‘L’ shape up St-Denis and then along Mount Royal East.

By far, I think the Strand in New York City is the best used book store. Although some order has been imposed onto it, I shall never forget the first time I stepped inside and spent several hours at least glancing at every shelf. You had to look just in case you missed something. Talk about ‘rough sort’. I must have bough thirty volumes that day. Sometimes I wish I could fly to NY just to go to there and then come home again. Sigh...

I shall ruminate no further on the subject, as I am getting wistful.