I own too many books. I have so many, in fact, that I've run out of places to keep them. They're in boxes piled in the back of my closet, stuffed two-deep in the bookshelves, stacked on the coffee table, the kitchen table, the bedside tables, and on every other flat surface. I'm going to have to move because I need a room specifically for books. (I'm not pretentious enough or rich enough to say I need a library.)
Some books I collect. Who doesn't need multiple copies of Baedekers from the eighteen-nineties and the nineteen-aughts, a complete set of autographed true first editions of Robert B. Parker's Spenser series, or anything published prior to 1920 by the Paul Elder Press? Some books are for reference. Dictionaries of course, come to mind, and encyclopaediae, and reference materials specific to my profession and avocations.
Other books are the types of things that make me who I am. I will always buy antique travel books for Boston and Southern California, my two homes. I like American cultural histories and biographies, the occasional collection of poetry, and books on scientific topics I barely comprehend, although I keep trying. I have an almost palpable need for lurid science fiction paperbacks from the 1950s and 1960s. Junk novels, I mostly read once and pass along to friends or family. They are few, however, compared with the books I keep because I admire the author's writing or talent for telling a story--Updike or Lovecraft, for example.
I have no business buying any more books. There are times when I resolve not to buy so much as a magazine until I empty my bookshelves or move to a larger place but I cannot resist the siren call of Harvard Book Store. Interestingly, as long as I'm safely on the Boston side of the river, it holds no sway over me, but maybe once a month I'm in Harvard Square and no matter how I try to stay away, the Harvard Book Store beckons. I'm no different from the junkie who repeatedly forswears the needle or the pipe: In the face of temptation my resolve falters. My immediate gratification will lead ultimately to self-destruction.
I don't care that Harvard Book Store is independent. I go there because they have what I want--what I need--even though I'm frequently unsure of either until I see it. I ignore most of the first floor, except for the corner near the staircase. The first floor is mostly new releases and standard bookstore fare, the stuff you could get more cheaply at Border's or Barnes & Noble. Independence be damned! The money you save at the chains will allow you to stock up on discounted remainders at Harvard Book Store.
At Harvard Book Store, the crowds are fierce. It's not possible to keep out of one another's space nor should you try. Just push your way through, using elbows if necessary, mutter "excuse me" and don't make eye contact. Everyone else will do the same and they won't think less of you for your rudeness. You may glare scornfully at those who think the downstairs is for curling up in a corner and reading or for looking at pictures in the big coffee table books. The space is narrow and there's no room for lollygagging. Let those poseurs take up space in Starbucks at the Harvard Coop. The coffee table books are priced low enough to buy and take home. Let them do so and get out.
If not used wisely, Harvard Book Store will kill you but you will die sated. read more