A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS

Ramblings about things done, seen, or remembered.

A Binding Addiction               listen

Bookstores and casinos share a sinister commonality; they both go out of their way to make it difficult for me to leave.  Now, I have not even a passing interest in gambling, but Casinos half-hidden exits with darkened glass doors (so the outside world does not distract) plus the never changing level of interior lighting means I easily loose track of time.  Bookstores are, by design, much easier to leave—but I can’t.  Shelf upon shelf, isle upon isle and, if I’m lucky, floor upon floor of the most addicting of modern-day innovations, the book, demand my attention.  And I am all too often weak.  I submit myself to their lures.  And I confess here and now to the world that I am, a browsaholic.  I’m a really good one too, I can pace myself (having prepared beforehand by eating, going to the restroom etc.) to browse for hours.

I spent nearly two hours buying a single volume tonight.  Longer than you’d expect seeing as I knew exactly which book I was going in for.  But no sooner did I enter the domain of the purveyor of printed delicacy than time and space settled their differences and went their separate ways, my literary ADD went into overdrive, and I became that most loved creature of booksellers, the browser; unable to take more than three steps without some volume’s magnetism drawing my fingers like iron-filings toward its pages.

“Look at me,” cried one nearby volume “I’m written by a recognized personality”

“I’m full of interesting things about your childhood fascination,” cried another.

“You deserve to relax – how’s this for fiction?”

“Educate yourself young man! But in a light easy-to-read manner”

The humor section threw a new release by Daily Show presenter John Stewart at me so I took a quick peek.  No more than a reach away was a book informing me of Einstein’s achievements other than physics (including revolutionary designs for refrigerators).  In the next isle I was assailed by the Bedside Companion to Sherlock Holmes (with a fascinating section on the Victorian profession of servant).  Two books on grammar had to be perused (would one of them finally give me an easy way to know when to use “which” or “that”?), and all this was before I got my fix at the section I always—always, always—stop by, Science Fiction.  (They had a book I was meaning to buy and that was cheaper on eBay, but could I wait?).

Before I knew it, the ten minutes till closing warning was broadcast and I was begging a nearby staff member to lock me in and bring me breakfast in the morning.

Whence this addiction?  For me, it’s partly because books are so diverse.  Bookstores contain every emotion and opinion; they cater to the atheist and the devoutly religious, the young and the old, the seeker of knowledge and the seeker of distraction.  They cover past, present and many possible futures.  The ability to enjoy a book is not restricted to age, language or even sight.  Whatever mood you are in there is a book for you.  Renowned historian David McCullough tells of how he once asked the manager of a big Barnes and Noble in New York how many different titles were in the store to choose from and was told “Oh, about 150,000.”  He said. “Imagine a civilization that can offer its citizens 150,000 different choices of what to read.  That’s a phenomenal civilization. The variety of choice we have is among the foremost American achievements and blessings that we have.”  Such an achievement is ideal for a mind like mine that flits from thought to thought and also for the mind that can sit and focus on a single subject.

Bookstore addiction can, of course, be difficult for those I’m with.  If we’re going anywhere near shops friends bring blindfolds so they can save me from a sudden craving bought on by walking past Borders.

Friends: “Borders! Quick, cover him.”

Me: “Hard cover or soft cover? I can handle it, let me try walking past; give me a chance to turn a new leaf; preferably in the sci-fi section.”

One of the best birthday gifts I ever had was from a girlfriend who took me to a bookstore and willingly set me loose on the unsuspecting volumes.  “You can have any book you want,” she said, settling into a comfy chair often provided by a bookstore for those with a more serious browsal dependence.  “And you can take as long as you want to pick it.”  Now that was a day.  I just broke into a sweat remembering it.

And don’t tell me browsing virtually will satisfy.  I have purchased books from Amazon and eBay, but you can’t have a really good browse there.  Flicking through pages until a passage or picture grabs my attention is just not possible.  There is a tactile satisfaction in having the weight of a book in your own hand that can’t be found anywhere but a bookstore.

As ridiculously addicted to print surfing as I am, I don’t actually buy a lot of books.  Partly because I have so many on my shelf yet to read, but partly because I don’t want to show favoritism to a single volume (you parents of more than one child know what I mean).  The sheer volume of choice makes it difficult to buy, but there is a certain elation to doing so, especially when you don’t actually have to pay for it.

The book I bought tonight was purchased with a $10 gift-card—a treasured item to be sure.  Far more important than the replaceable ATM card or drivers license it had nestled next to in my wallet for over a year.  There is something about having the power to buy any book at any time with a gift card that makes it difficult to actually do so; I use the power and its gone; that, and knowing that the purchase of one book means I have, by definition, not bought every other one—inaction sure to bring regret.  Indeed my ability to use the $10 card was due in large part to the fact that I just got a $50 gift-card for the same store.

I know exactly what I want to buy with that one too, and where it is in the store; I know it will take hours upon hours over several visits to actually do so.  And I am looking forward to every word filled moment.

Copyright © Lincoln Thomas 2006