My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I am most distressed. Bailey Coy Bookstore closed last year. I walked down there from my clinic and it was GONE. Forever. Then I was just in Fremont and their bookstore is closing. I've read there and attended readings there. Elliot Bay Books moved up to Capitol Hill so I can still go there and smell the heavenly paper/ink/glue of books. I cruise books. I sidle up to them and feel them. I read the back, the cover, sometimes the index. I ponder their physicality, their heft and texture. When I bought Just Kids, the Patti Smith bio about her and Mapplethorpe, I felt the pain of happiness. There are piles of books on my bed. I sleep with books. There are piles beside my bed. I read mysteries, biographies, poetry, travel books, cook books, classics, trash. I read everything. Some books I read annually. The Cider House Rules is one of those books. Presumed Innocent, by Scott Turow is every bit as good as Dostoevsky. I've read it so many times in the bath, it's swollen to twice it's size. A Kindle won't replace a book, even though I'd use a Kindle if someone gave me one.

Bookstores are disappearing right now. Save a bookstore. Buy a book. (buy a stack of books)