The most wonderful thing about all the stereotypical old bookstore stories is that they all really happened. The customer who wanted book recommendations simple enough for her adored Pomeranian and needed to be told that dogs can’t, in fact, read; the customer who’d just heard about the lost plays of Sophocles and wondered if the shop could order them for him; the customer who wanted help finding a book she’d seen in the shop five months ago: “It had a man on the cover – and he didn’t look happy.” 

As I’ve chronicled in this space a few times, friends of mine tend to tell me when they come into possession of great heaping hordes of books. It’s natural among bookish people, I think, and it’s usually not bragging or vindictive. I like to think of it more as sharing the happiness, the sheer giddiness, of that first moment when all of those new acquisitions are finally yours. 

There’s always an element of anxious calendar-watching for a reviewer and editor, since newspapers have lead-times and review copies of books tend to appear long before the finished copies

Many years ago, I was invited by an old friend of mine to take part in a funeral. He’d been the lazy proprietor of a off-the-beaten-path little bookshop in a sleepy little town since roughly the Crimean War, always carrying along with nominal business at the cash register, always there for

Recently – I know this will shock you – there was a little dust-up on Twitter. Since this one was about books and the reading and writing world, it was a relatively minor dust-up, of course, but it was almost squarely in my own target-range of interest: