Strand Books---Died and Went to Heaven

I'd been holding back from venturing to Strand Books, knowing it would make me nostalgic for all of my books in storage, and that I would, invariably, end up lugging home more books--a big no, no in this apartment. But living so close to it, this mecca for bibliophiles, the lure finally pushed me to go there holding my breath in anticipation and fear.

Let me say for those not here in the city, the weather has been glorious, which we will undoubtedly pay for in January and February. I scheduled a Mommy Alone time for Saturday by getting a massage at a very nice place by the New School. And then I walked around, still marveling that I'm here--I know, I know, it is an annoying refrain indeed--Union Square, passing Jon Stewart talking to someone while holding his young child. If anyone is now synonymous with the quintessential witty New Yorker, it must surely be Jon Stewart. I walked eastward when I stumbled upon the greatest flea market on Broadway. It is at moments like this that I sigh in sheer happiness. How could it be that this remarkable flea market full of junk I don't need--there was one vintage clothier selling fur wraps at a very good price--would be on the very block as Strand Books? Could life be any more perfect?

Reminiscent of my time in Camden Town, London, I walked up and down gazing into stalls selling Pashmina shawls for $5, African bric a brac, the Gyros stand tantalizing you with wafts of lamb, the stall selling toys made in China, another stall chock full of hand bags of every shape and size, and more food stands. This curious browsing was an effort to stall my entrance into this very large bookstore. But the stalling had to end, so I found myself in front of Strands, starting to pore over the shelves on the sidewalk, selling books for a $1. Yup, cheaper than any cup of coffee in town. There's no point telling anyone I found a few things I had to buy. There was the old collection of John Donne's poems, the Amish cookbook--a fetish of mine, really--an absolutely unblemished old copy of Kate Chopin's "Ethan Frome," and a history book of the precolonial slave trade.

The old cliche says something about 'telling a book by its cover,' when in fact you can tell a great deal by what people read. Whenever I'm in someone's home, the first thing I find myself doing is poring over their book shelves. Quite like music collections, books reveal the quirks, obsessions, and tastes of its reader and listener. Unlike art, which is purchased and displayed for public effect, books and CDs are much more personal, intimate. It's as if you had gone into someone's lingerie drawer and were given free reign to roam about, noticing the discolored panties, the boxers with spots. Nothing warms my heart more than to walk into a house that has a nice, healthy collection of books, obviously read and not purchased for appearances. One has to be very suspect when you see a neatly lined bookcase, all the books in uniform leather bound covers of titles you're certain the purchaser had never read in the original, much less the Cliffs Notes version. It says something about this person, does it not?

If there are no shelves filled with even those pulpy novels you buy on the racks in airports, well, let me stop there. No need to comment further. Reading is so many different things to different people, but the most important aspect of this act is in the use of imagination, of hope, of anticipation when you open a book.

I was once at a friend's, whose bookshelves were full of self-help tomes, and not much else. It was an illuminating moment for me in this long relationship. I had to ponder how it was we were such good friends when she didn't read, it seemed, anything but those self-help books, which were obviously not doing much in curing her of the normal ills of an unhappy person. The state of her shelf made me sad really since she was someone who could do with a dose of imagination, hope, and anticipation.

I had to do the most cursory browsing of the first floor, not able to engage in a thorough inspection of each shelf. See, this new life of leisure I've created for myself meant I had to be home by a certain time to wait for the grocery delivery I had scheduled. But this quick stop at one of my most anticipated places in the city was enticing enough to last till the next time I can go fully armed with time.