There weren’t any curtains in the windows, and the books that didn’t fit into the bookshelf lay piled on the floor like a bunch of intellectual refugees. – Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
didn’t imagine that I would be a used bookstore owner of such a jumble of a store. Piles of books here. Piles there. In boxes. Out of boxes. Piles constantly around my feet. Piles on piles. Boxes piled with piles of books atop. Bought a stool so as to sit up at the counter and it is piled with books.
What are the piles? Piles to be sorted. Piles to be shelved. Piles to be cleaned. Piles to be looked up for pricing. Boxes of books to be sorted. Boxes to be cleaned. Boxes to be looked up and sorted. Piles and boxes.
Am I complaining? Somewhere in there is one. Then I have to remind myself that this is a used bookstore and there are no rules. Have I also mentioned that I get claustrophobic? I’m sure I have. The worse place for cluttering is found in the front room when my desk is. Doesn’t affect anyone but me (and Hannah, of course). Unless you are a customer who wants to look at the piles around me. And that is okay to do.
You see, I always thought my used bookstore would be ‘dignified’. You know, wood shelves full of leather bounds. Dust free. Arranged alphabetically. Rare books under glass protected from dust and fingerprints. Aged atlas hung on walls that aren’t covered in bookshelves. Various works of art around on the walls, tabletops. Vintage and fine antiques mixed. Brass. And a crystal chandelier. Always a crystal chandelier. Oriental rugs. Antique library tables stacked (not piled) with vintage and one-of-a kind finds.
And, this is silly but when I see my vision of this store I see myself as a man wearing a wool jacket with leather patched sleeves, corduroy pants. Of course a hand-knit vest under the jacket. Good sturdy leather tied shoes. And smoking a pipe filled with cherry tobacco. A pot of tea with all the fixings and biscuits always at my ready. Volvo parked outside.
Understand I am a woman. I don’t own a wool jacket. Anymore. Never with patched elbows. I’ve never smoked a pipe. Tea. Why brew it when I have the teahouse right nearby. The Volvo is outside in the parking lot. My outfit is based on my mood since there aren’t rules or standards to live up to. So there’s that. Still, that’s my vision, as strange as it is.
My store is what it is. I love it for what it has become. I’d like it more organized but when it’s just me in the store or Hannah at one time it is hard to maintain any type of standard. It is just what it is to the best of what we can do within the day. Fortunately I hear from customers that it is cozy. And organized. Huh. I’ll go with that. That makes me happy. But I would like to somehow hang a chandelier in here.
The bookstore itself was cozy but not crowded… And it was filled with that wonderful book smell that anyone who’s ever even been near a book will recognize. It’s more than the smell of paper; it’s the smell of the high seas and adventure and far off worlds. It’s the smell of a billion billion worlds, each a portal to somewhere new. – Shaun David Hutchinson, At the Edge of the Universe