As much as it currently pains me to say it—while floating in the endless ether of law school readings—I really do love to read. Specifically, I love physical books, and more specifically than that, I love second-hand books. There is something special about an old book; maybe it’s the names of its owners scrawled behind the cover, maybe it’s the prose underlined in red pen, or maybe it’s the dirty fingerprints or dried-up silverfish waiting to surprise you on the margin of a page. I know I’m not alone in this feeling, and I suspect I’m not alone in the sadness of the slow extinction of second-hand bookstores.
I can think of few better ways to waste away an afternoon; flicking through the fragrant pages easily separated on their broken-in spines, chewing the fat with well-read booksellers, and spending pennies on the dollar for books you could otherwise buy new. I have spent a fair bit of time in used bookstores in the cities I’ve lived in and in places I’ve travelled to. The one nearest and dearest to me is The Printed Word in Dundas (West Hamilton), Ontario. I’ve been visiting this shop for years now and have filled my bookshelves with countless titles from their vast and curated inventory.
When I first moved to Hamilton and started to visit the shop, I was shy and would sneak about the shop seeking titles I had in mind and bring them to the counter without so much as a few words. I was nervous around learned people (and still am) and did not read anything very critically; I simply loved stories. Over time, I would loiter longer, listening to discussions on literature and pulling books with interesting titles and fonts at random. The bookseller would occasionally ask me what I thought about the books I had last purchased, would listen thoughtfully, and field new recommendations.
My respect for the second-hand bookstore store crystallized a couple of years ago on my birthday. My partner had reached out to the bookseller and asked him to recommend five books he thought I’d enjoy based on my purchases and our conversations. Those five books are now among some of my favourites and were almost predictive of the genres I have come to love today. Now I never miss a chance to speak to the seller about books when I’m in the neighbourhood.
Obviously, there are many ways to come into possession of a good book. Indigos are everywhere, and they have an exhaustive catalogue of great books, with associates who are keen to help you find something up your alley. Goodreads is also an incredible web resource. It is basically social media for books, where you can follow fellow readers to see their books read and reviews. While useful, neither of these compares to the local bookseller, with whom you will develop a relationship and history with. I have the Printed Word to thank for introducing me to some of my favourite novels, and for his insights which have helped me discover more books and read in a more rewarding way.
In my heart and mind, I believe stores like this are essential to the ecology of cities. As commercial rents skyrocket, the heart of city main streets is replaced by more chain restaurants, bric-a-brac stores, and more coffee shops than you can shake a stick at. Such was the case for the Printed Word at the beginning of the summer as the shop was facing uncertainty about its future. While the community was struck with sadness, it was incredible to see the support for the shop; community members brainstormed alternative business models, others scoured the web for retail spaces, and we all filled the shelves of our home with as many books as the wood would bear.
It was an emotional summer for the community around the shop. We wondered where we would find our next yellowed paperback, where we might go to see some of Hamilton’s poetry giants read their work, and where we might sheepishly ask for help in understanding Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. The whole ordeal left me feeling bitter about the makeup of our cities, and how vicious giants like Amazon and Walmart—combined with our apathetic acceptance of their power – have uprooted many local markets for the sake of efficiency and the lowest price (guaranteed).
Two weeks ago, good news came through: The Printed Word had found a last-minute lease down the street just weeks before they were set to move out. I rejoiced along with many other book lovers in the community and now sleep easy knowing another used book is only a short bike ride away. The idea for this article started as an elaboration on my love for books and has migrated into urban geography and light economics; realms I have no business dealing with. It suffices to say that small businesses in cities are important. It is what they offer, and your relationships with their owners that make cities unique, livable, and worth visiting.
