Now, I understand that books are mostly procured in large, bookselling conglomerates across the nation. And I have an abiding appreciation for any place that sells books. I even have a Barnes and Noble club card (because, damnit, if I'm to support the man I want a discount!). While there are many of these in New York, they're not the fixtures to which I so fondly refer. No, the bookstores I'm speaking of are often found across the street from these megastores. They are dingy, smoky, dusty and delightful. No one will sell you a latte. In fact, they might scowl at you if you're seen to be cradling one while you finger their precious texts. No one will direct you to the "bestsellers" for homogenized literary consumption. In fact, most likely, no one will even speak to you. Snark and substance. What could be better? Not much if you're able to get both on an activist's budget.
Some favorites, and some bookporn to follow:
The hot, dusty, overcrowded, delight that is The Strand. Yeah, it's love/hate. Mostly love, though. Books are cheap and aplenty. Look at the top of the picture. Yep, those are all books. 18 miles of books, in fact.
The straight-out-of-Harry-Potter wonder that is Westsider Books. I used to live right near this place. Spent many hours navigating this magnificent, crammed place buying poetry. That was the summer of heartache-soothed-by-Neruda.
And Bluestockings. Where the personal is political. Please note.
There are many more, and many on my list to visit. But that's enough for now. Yum.
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