The recent news about the fate of town libraries brought me close to tears. Struggling with budget cutbacks and unsuccessful proposition 2 ½ overrides, libraries in many towns are being forced to close. Others are losing certification, rendering them islands without a bridge, ferry or even a dingy to connect to the larger library world. For small libraries with older collections, this is essentially a death sentence.
Though small and somewhat cramped, Sharon is fortunate to have a fully certified library open six days a week. Many people appreciate Sharon’s connection to the public library system. For those less familiar, the Old Colony Library Network, of which Sharon is a member, is a group of 28 member libraries on the South Shore that collectively maintains over 800,000 titles of books, books-on-tape, CDs and DVDs.
While I regularly use the town library, I also buy my share of books. Many of my purchases, though, seem to end up in a pile—sometimes for years—before I get around to reading them. My wasteful book-buying habits and limited shelf space has led me to a different approach, one that combines the pleasurable aspects of bookstore browsing with the advantages of the library network. I’ll scan the store shelves, pull out my notebook, and jot down the names of books or authors that interest me. Then I’ll log on to the library network (www.ocln.org) and order the books for free.
It was while scrolling through the library network’s Pulitzer Prize winners list that I discovered Alison Lurie’s 1979 novel “Foreign Affairs,” an old-fashioned Jane Austen-ish tale of manners and relationships set in London. After finishing it, I placed holds on some of Lurie’s other books. Though none of the others quite matched her prize winner, I didn’t pay a penny for any of them.
I recently had another successful library network experience after reading the “New Yorker” short story “One Minus One” by Irish author Colm Toibin. I was immediately pulled in by the first line, “the moon hangs low over Texas,” and after passing it to my husband with an urgent plea—“you have to read this”—I logged onto the library network and got the last available copy of Toibin’s new collection of short stories, “Mothers and Sons.”
On the same day I learned of the library closures, I read an article about author Elaine Dundy, the so-called spiritual grandmother of Bridget Jones. The hapless heroine of Dundy’s 1958 semi-autobiographical novel was described as a cross between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield. Intrigued, I logged onto the library network and typed in the name of the novel. Sadly, it came up empty. Undeterred, I tried typing in the author’s name, and was rewarded with details about the one copy of the book available at the Kingston library. It was then that I realized my initial mistake—I’d spelled the velvety rich ingredient in guacamole ‘avacado.’ For the record, the correct title and spelling of Dundy’s recently re-issued novel is “The Dud Avocado.”
Laughing at my blunder, I quickly clicked on ‘place a hold’ before any other early Sunday morning riser-readers snatched it up. And now I will sit back and eagerly await the message that will soon arrive in my e-mail box, announcing that my book is ready for pick-up.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
First Lines that will Last and Last
First lines in stories are like first impressions. Good ones intrigue. They pull us in, make us eager to get to know the story, to learn what happens next. Here are some of my favorite first lines from great classic and contemporary stories I’ve read over the years. Some are simple, others elaborate. All of them are unforgettable. Except for the first one—my hands-down favorite first line of all time—they are in no particular order.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
“The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.”—Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find.
“ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”—Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre
“Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania.”—Anne Tyler, Breathing Lessons.
“In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.”—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.
“I am an invisible man.” —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
“The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Harrison Bergeron.
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
“This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.”—Raymond Carver, Cathedral.
“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”—John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany.
“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind.
“It was a pleasure to burn.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.
“On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.”—Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True.
“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”—Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome.
“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.”—Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
“124 was spiteful.” —Toni Morrison, Beloved
“ ‘Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ ” said Mrs. Ramsay.—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.
“It was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.
“Theodore is in the ground.”—Caleb Carr, The Alienist.
“I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground.
“In the next room Pavel Romanovich was roaring with laughter, as he related how his wife had left him.”—Vladimir Nabokov, A Slice of Life.
“Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in East-Central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.”—Dave Eggers, We Shall Know Our Velocity.
“This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Offshore Pirate.
“Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.” —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.
“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” —George Eliot, Middlemarch
“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
“The telephone rang, and Richard Maple, who had stayed home from work this Friday because of a cold, answered it: ‘Hello?’”—John Updike, Your Lover Just Called.
“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady.
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
“In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
“The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.”—Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find.
“ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”—Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre
“Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania.”—Anne Tyler, Breathing Lessons.
“In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.”—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.
“I am an invisible man.” —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
“The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Harrison Bergeron.
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
“This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.”—Raymond Carver, Cathedral.
“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”—John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany.
“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind.
“It was a pleasure to burn.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.
“On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.”—Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True.
“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”—Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome.
“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.”—Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
“124 was spiteful.” —Toni Morrison, Beloved
“ ‘Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ ” said Mrs. Ramsay.—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.
“It was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.
“Theodore is in the ground.”—Caleb Carr, The Alienist.
“I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground.
“In the next room Pavel Romanovich was roaring with laughter, as he related how his wife had left him.”—Vladimir Nabokov, A Slice of Life.
“Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in East-Central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.”—Dave Eggers, We Shall Know Our Velocity.
“This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Offshore Pirate.
“Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.” —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.
“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” —George Eliot, Middlemarch
“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
“The telephone rang, and Richard Maple, who had stayed home from work this Friday because of a cold, answered it: ‘Hello?’”—John Updike, Your Lover Just Called.
“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady.
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
“In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
Friday, January 5, 2007
A Thrilling Time at the Beach
This year's family vacation was quite different from a year ago. Last spring we were visiting colleges up and down the East Coast, traipsing across tree-lined campuses.
With the college search process thankfully behind us, this time we had no agenda. There were no Fiske or Princeton Review guide books to read and toss in the trunk. There were no brochures and college course catalogues to scan and collect at each stop. No, this year was nothing like that. The only things to read were beach books. Lots of them.
As in times past, this year we read and relaxed at my in-law's place in Luquillo, Puerto Rico. My in-laws are big readers too. Their shelves are filled with an assortment of books accumulated from vacations over the years - literary stuff like John Updike, Zadie Smith and Margaret Atwood - and rows and rows of suspense-filled thrillers.
I know I don't need an excuse to read a thriller. Any time, anywhere, I could pick up a Robert Ludlum or Ken Follett and be drawn into the world of assassins and political intrigue. The thing is, books like these just aren't as good when read in the comfort of one's home.
They need sand, waves and sun-block smudges on pages to complete the experience. Like hotdogs at a ball park, some things just have to be consumed in the environment in which they were intended.
I know this is true, because more than once I've tried to finish a thriller in non-beach surroundings. I can get away with it on the plane ride home. While there's no sun, sand or ocean at 32,000 feet, those things are still close enough in time and memory that I can trick myself into thinking I'm still on vacation. But after I get home? Forget it. Just can't seem to finish the book. Even a good one.
Our family has the thriller-reading compulsion down to a science. We read and pass, read and pass, exchanging books - one or two a day - with a quick review to the next person. "Riveting"... "A page turner" ... "You won't be able to put this one down." Or sometimes, "Don't bother," saving a family member from a time-wasting dud.
It was in Puerto Rico a few years ago I read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code," followed quickly by the (far inferior) "Angels and Demons." This year, my husband read Dan Brown's "Deception Point," before passing it along to my daughter.
She passed John Grisham's "The Last Juror" to me, as I handed Grisham's "The Broker" to her. The passing thing is like musical chairs - there's a mad grab for a just-finished book, especially when given a thumbs-up from the last reader. My son hasn't gotten into thriller-reading so much, preferring the active side of beach vacations - boogie boarding, playing paddle ball, body surfing. He did, though, finish off "Animal Farm"- required reading for his English class.
Thrillers are perfect beach books. With dialogue like, "nice try" "wanna bet?" and "no lie," they can be easily consumed while lathering on sun-block and munching on a potato chip. This year I especially enjoyed Brad Meltzer's "The Zero Game." Set on Capitol Hill, it had all the right elements - murder, politics, shocking twists and turns.
Having been a Capitol Hill intern during the summer of '79, I was familiar with the world of Appropriations Committee meetings and creepy underground tunnels. Like the Congressional page character in the book, I too, ran errands, bringing sealed envelopes to VIPs in the Dirksen and Russell Senate office buildings. I'm sure, though, the messages in the envelopes I delivered contained nothing as intriguing as those in "The Zero Game." Or did they?
My fascination with political thrillers was no doubt rooted in my childhood, where I grew up in the DC area with a father who was completely immersed in politics. In addition to being a political junkie, my dad was an avid reader. And he loved thrillers. He was the first to get the new Robert Ludlum or John de LaCarre.
He always read from a hardback; he could never wait for the paperback version. It was my dad who urged me to read "The Day of the Jackal" and "The Eye of the Needle" while on a family beach vacation back when I was in high school. They are without a doubt the best thrillers I've ever read.
In addition to Grisham and the political thriller, I read the crime drama "Lost Light" by Michael Connelly. This story had everything - an unsolved murder, the disappearance of an FBI agent, stolen millions, a terrorist connection. And an appealing and very human hard-luck ex-cop named Harry Bosch, determined to solve a murder that had haunted him for years.
My daughter and husband were fighting over this one after my "this was great" review.
The last book I picked up was a literary suspense-type novel, "Samaritan," by Richard Price. I got about half-way through it on the beach, and read more on the plane ride home. It's sitting on my kitchen table now, still smelling of sea-salt, a few specks of sand stuck between the pages. I hope I can finish this one - it was quite good. And also, I really, really, want to know "who did it?"
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
With the college search process thankfully behind us, this time we had no agenda. There were no Fiske or Princeton Review guide books to read and toss in the trunk. There were no brochures and college course catalogues to scan and collect at each stop. No, this year was nothing like that. The only things to read were beach books. Lots of them.
As in times past, this year we read and relaxed at my in-law's place in Luquillo, Puerto Rico. My in-laws are big readers too. Their shelves are filled with an assortment of books accumulated from vacations over the years - literary stuff like John Updike, Zadie Smith and Margaret Atwood - and rows and rows of suspense-filled thrillers.
I know I don't need an excuse to read a thriller. Any time, anywhere, I could pick up a Robert Ludlum or Ken Follett and be drawn into the world of assassins and political intrigue. The thing is, books like these just aren't as good when read in the comfort of one's home.
They need sand, waves and sun-block smudges on pages to complete the experience. Like hotdogs at a ball park, some things just have to be consumed in the environment in which they were intended.
I know this is true, because more than once I've tried to finish a thriller in non-beach surroundings. I can get away with it on the plane ride home. While there's no sun, sand or ocean at 32,000 feet, those things are still close enough in time and memory that I can trick myself into thinking I'm still on vacation. But after I get home? Forget it. Just can't seem to finish the book. Even a good one.
Our family has the thriller-reading compulsion down to a science. We read and pass, read and pass, exchanging books - one or two a day - with a quick review to the next person. "Riveting"... "A page turner" ... "You won't be able to put this one down." Or sometimes, "Don't bother," saving a family member from a time-wasting dud.
It was in Puerto Rico a few years ago I read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code," followed quickly by the (far inferior) "Angels and Demons." This year, my husband read Dan Brown's "Deception Point," before passing it along to my daughter.
She passed John Grisham's "The Last Juror" to me, as I handed Grisham's "The Broker" to her. The passing thing is like musical chairs - there's a mad grab for a just-finished book, especially when given a thumbs-up from the last reader. My son hasn't gotten into thriller-reading so much, preferring the active side of beach vacations - boogie boarding, playing paddle ball, body surfing. He did, though, finish off "Animal Farm"- required reading for his English class.
Thrillers are perfect beach books. With dialogue like, "nice try" "wanna bet?" and "no lie," they can be easily consumed while lathering on sun-block and munching on a potato chip. This year I especially enjoyed Brad Meltzer's "The Zero Game." Set on Capitol Hill, it had all the right elements - murder, politics, shocking twists and turns.
Having been a Capitol Hill intern during the summer of '79, I was familiar with the world of Appropriations Committee meetings and creepy underground tunnels. Like the Congressional page character in the book, I too, ran errands, bringing sealed envelopes to VIPs in the Dirksen and Russell Senate office buildings. I'm sure, though, the messages in the envelopes I delivered contained nothing as intriguing as those in "The Zero Game." Or did they?
My fascination with political thrillers was no doubt rooted in my childhood, where I grew up in the DC area with a father who was completely immersed in politics. In addition to being a political junkie, my dad was an avid reader. And he loved thrillers. He was the first to get the new Robert Ludlum or John de LaCarre.
He always read from a hardback; he could never wait for the paperback version. It was my dad who urged me to read "The Day of the Jackal" and "The Eye of the Needle" while on a family beach vacation back when I was in high school. They are without a doubt the best thrillers I've ever read.
In addition to Grisham and the political thriller, I read the crime drama "Lost Light" by Michael Connelly. This story had everything - an unsolved murder, the disappearance of an FBI agent, stolen millions, a terrorist connection. And an appealing and very human hard-luck ex-cop named Harry Bosch, determined to solve a murder that had haunted him for years.
My daughter and husband were fighting over this one after my "this was great" review.
The last book I picked up was a literary suspense-type novel, "Samaritan," by Richard Price. I got about half-way through it on the beach, and read more on the plane ride home. It's sitting on my kitchen table now, still smelling of sea-salt, a few specks of sand stuck between the pages. I hope I can finish this one - it was quite good. And also, I really, really, want to know "who did it?"
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
The Special-ness of Small Bookshops
It was with sadness that I read about the Hearts & Stars Bookshop in Canton closing at the end of July. I wandered into that bookshop many times over the past four years. Like many people, I enjoyed the intimate surroundings and the friendly helpful staff. There’s something special about a small bookstore. In addition to bestsellers, they display titles that aren’t as well known, ones that otherwise may be overlooked. And I always appreciate those little hand-written notes tucked in the stacks with the mini-synopsis and personal critique. Some of the best books I’ve read I’ve discovered in these quaint little shops.
It was in a small bookshop that I first discovered Annie Dillard’s “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” a beautiful work of writing-art on life and nature. And as so often happens, that book led me to the author’s others—her memoir, “An American Childhood,” and her wonderful books about writing “Teaching a Stone to Talk” and “The Writing Life.” Those books led me to explore other essay collections in nearby stacks, those of Joan Didion, Andrea Barrett, E.B. White, and even Emerson.
It was in a small bookshop that I picked up the well-known “The Secret Life of Bees” (Sue Monk Kidd), lesser-known “Mrs. Kimble” (Jennifer Haigh), and the sweet tale, “The Monk Downstairs” (Tim Farrington). I found some wonderful vintage classics in an old used bookshop in Great Barrington, including a first-edition copy of Hemingway’s “For Whom the Bells Toll” I bought for my daughter.
And it was in Sharon’s own Annie’s Book Stop that I discovered Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping,” one of the most beautifully written stories I have ever read. The passage on craving and having is one I’ve turned to again and again—“for when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it…though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries.” I knew I had to read Robinson’s only other novel, the brilliant Pulitzer-Prize winning “Gilead.” But I may have never discovered either had I not wandered into Annie’s.
I’ve tried to think why these independent bookshops are so appealing and inviting. One obvious reason is their size. I don’t feel overwhelmed walking into them. It’s why I prefer small hardware stores to mega-ones like Home Depot. Having too many choices is not always a good thing. What really matters is quality. It’s like having a humongous closet filled with blouses and pants and sweaters and shoes. But out of all of those things, there are but a few favorites that you wear—the worn-in jeans, the soft sweater, the shoes that you can walk in for miles and miles. Small bookshops are like that. They may not have the huge inventories of the superstores. They won’t have multiple discounted copies of bestsellers or non-book items like CDs, DVDs, toys and games. But they have some very good books, some real gems.
The whole experience is different in a small bookshop. In a big store, I go in with a goal in mind. I may search, but I don’t linger. And though there are exceptions, I rarely “discover” a book in a big store. In a larger store, it’s less about the experience of being there, and more about just getting what I need and heading to the check-out counter.
Thankfully, there are still some independent bookshops in the area. In addition to Annie’s Book Stop at the Heights Plaza in Sharon, there’s Paperback Junction on Washington Street in South Easton, a wonderful little shop with both new and used “great finds.” Other local shops I’ve not yet been to include Bookends on North Main Street in Mansfield and The Blue Bunny Children’s bookshop in Dedham Center. If you’re willing to travel a bit further, there’s Brookline Booksmith on Harvard Street and The Children’s Book Shop on Washington Street in Brookline Village, Newtonville Books on Walnut Street and the old Concord Bookshop on Main Street.
And though much further away, I have to mention one of my all-time favorite bookshops, the Port in a Storm Bookstore in Somes Cove, Maine. It’s worth planning a trip to Acadia just to have the chance to stop in, peruse the shelves, and discover a wonderfully obscure story tucked away in the stacks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
It was in a small bookshop that I first discovered Annie Dillard’s “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek,” a beautiful work of writing-art on life and nature. And as so often happens, that book led me to the author’s others—her memoir, “An American Childhood,” and her wonderful books about writing “Teaching a Stone to Talk” and “The Writing Life.” Those books led me to explore other essay collections in nearby stacks, those of Joan Didion, Andrea Barrett, E.B. White, and even Emerson.
It was in a small bookshop that I picked up the well-known “The Secret Life of Bees” (Sue Monk Kidd), lesser-known “Mrs. Kimble” (Jennifer Haigh), and the sweet tale, “The Monk Downstairs” (Tim Farrington). I found some wonderful vintage classics in an old used bookshop in Great Barrington, including a first-edition copy of Hemingway’s “For Whom the Bells Toll” I bought for my daughter.
And it was in Sharon’s own Annie’s Book Stop that I discovered Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping,” one of the most beautifully written stories I have ever read. The passage on craving and having is one I’ve turned to again and again—“for when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it…though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries.” I knew I had to read Robinson’s only other novel, the brilliant Pulitzer-Prize winning “Gilead.” But I may have never discovered either had I not wandered into Annie’s.
I’ve tried to think why these independent bookshops are so appealing and inviting. One obvious reason is their size. I don’t feel overwhelmed walking into them. It’s why I prefer small hardware stores to mega-ones like Home Depot. Having too many choices is not always a good thing. What really matters is quality. It’s like having a humongous closet filled with blouses and pants and sweaters and shoes. But out of all of those things, there are but a few favorites that you wear—the worn-in jeans, the soft sweater, the shoes that you can walk in for miles and miles. Small bookshops are like that. They may not have the huge inventories of the superstores. They won’t have multiple discounted copies of bestsellers or non-book items like CDs, DVDs, toys and games. But they have some very good books, some real gems.
The whole experience is different in a small bookshop. In a big store, I go in with a goal in mind. I may search, but I don’t linger. And though there are exceptions, I rarely “discover” a book in a big store. In a larger store, it’s less about the experience of being there, and more about just getting what I need and heading to the check-out counter.
Thankfully, there are still some independent bookshops in the area. In addition to Annie’s Book Stop at the Heights Plaza in Sharon, there’s Paperback Junction on Washington Street in South Easton, a wonderful little shop with both new and used “great finds.” Other local shops I’ve not yet been to include Bookends on North Main Street in Mansfield and The Blue Bunny Children’s bookshop in Dedham Center. If you’re willing to travel a bit further, there’s Brookline Booksmith on Harvard Street and The Children’s Book Shop on Washington Street in Brookline Village, Newtonville Books on Walnut Street and the old Concord Bookshop on Main Street.
And though much further away, I have to mention one of my all-time favorite bookshops, the Port in a Storm Bookstore in Somes Cove, Maine. It’s worth planning a trip to Acadia just to have the chance to stop in, peruse the shelves, and discover a wonderfully obscure story tucked away in the stacks.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
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