The Strand Bookstore is an old blanket that one wraps
oneself in when in need of some comforting private quiet time. A used
bookstores is a literary oasis in a desert of rude uncivilized behavior, noise,
pollution, and traffic in the entropy of modern civilization. An old bookstore
is always welcoming and accepting without the high-pressure salesmen looking
for commissions that one would find in its obnoxious cousin, the used car
dealership. The underpaid NYU students employed at the store would rather be
left alone to their own thoughts if given the choice but are always helpful and
courteous if their assistance is requested.
My favorite
bookstore has always been the Strand at 828 Broadway and 12th St. I was first
introduced to it by my friend Vincent who was a history major at Queens college
in the nineteen seventies and was looking for an obscure out of print book on Bismarck’s
personal letters to his mistress, for a paper he was writing on the Prussian-
German nineteenth century leader. My friend had already visited the Main Library
at 42nd St., without any luck.
Emerging
from the subway at Union Square and walking south past old antique shops and we
came upon the old bookstore surrounded by many mobile book carts with
miscellaneous volumes of every shape and size on every subject imaginable. A
sign on the side of each cart said either $0.50 or $1.
We entered
the store with tables full of books and books covering the walls like wallpaper
from floor to ceiling as far as the eye could see. At the information desk we
asked for the volume, and we’re told to walk down the stairs to the sub-sub
basement where Mr. Miller would help us. The old staircase groaned and moaned
creaking with each step as we descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of
the old building passing other book departments on the way and inhaling the
musky, dusty scents.
Upon
arrival we beheld the sight of endless piles of books of every size and shape
stacked precariously, some defying gravity in a maze of dusty, musky aisles wandering
away in curiously unpredictable alleyways, like walking through Collier’s
Mansion. Fluorescent lights hung from high above at haphazard angles lighting
the way.Old decrepit cardboard signs hung on wires directed the visitor to various
historical subjects.
Vinny called out, “Mr. Miller are you here?”
“Back here, walk forward and to your left and follow my
voice”.
Mr. Miller directed us, and we followed his voice until we
reached the clearing where a large expansive old wooden oak desk sat covered
with piles of history books. Peeking over the piles of books we found Mr.
Miller a slight man maybe fifty years of age with coke bottle glasses and a
mild bookish demeanor.
“Well, you found me, how can I help you?”said Mr.Miller.
Vincent asked for the book and Mr. Miller thought for a
moment.
“I believe we do have it, follow me.”I waited by the desk unsure that my girth would pass through the narrow aisles without incident.Vincent and Mr. Miller disappeared into the literary abyss. After a few minutes they returned. Mr. Miller beamed triumphantly like a conquering hero returning home from a campaign, carrying three copies of the book, one of which was missing its cover. We found out from Mr. Miller that the book had been out of print for over sixty-five years, but the store still had three copies! Vincent picked out the best copy making sure that all the pages were still there, consisting of photos of original letters in Bismarck ‘s hand. We thanked Mr. Miller and began our ascent to the main floor to pay for the book. This store would bestow many treasures over the years and is still in operation today.
May 23’
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