The July 17 edition of the Los Angeles Times bears an article about the abundance of used bookstores in this area of the country. I read the article with pleasure not unmingled with shame, owing to the fact I somehow managed to miss some of the stores named despite all my book-loving years of residence here.
The July 17 edition of the Los Angeles Times bears an article about the abundance of used bookstores in this area of the country. I read the article with pleasure not unmingled with shame, owing to the fact I somehow managed to miss some of the stores named despite all my book-loving years of residence here.One of the very first things I did with my very first paycheck from Uncle Sam’s Navy was to begin making purchases in the used bookstores of southern California. A couple of cross-country moves proved to me the futility of attempting to retain the entirety of my collection, but I possessed a fair accumulation at various points in time.
The story makes mention of the justly famous Acres of Books in Long Beach. A literal catacombs of books, the place is what Stephen King would create if they asked him to do a makeover of a Barnes and Noble. You could die there in those dusty stacks and nobody would ever find your bones. I used to go there a lot, but can’t anymore because my throat can’t take the dust—the fine, greasy residue of a million dead novels, atlases and other printed matter, gone to air and come to rest upon everything at that address. They keep boxes of tissues handy so patrons can keep from looking like chimney sweeps when they exit the place for the Blue Line trains.
My absolute favorite book venue was the now-defunct Papa Bach’s in the west side of L.A., to whose fascinating shelves I would repair while friends were pretending to enjoy some Bergman film at the theater across the street. When I was single and lonely (once a common combination) I’d toss down a few stiff drinks and spend the evening there selecting Penguin Classics; I rationed myself to three at a time, though it was sometimes interesting to discover what I’d bought by the more sober light of rosy-fingered dawn. What made that store so special? A few things: I discovered Evelyn Waugh there, great medicine for a cynical young man without a steady date– besides that, they took my check at Papa Bach’s without asking for identification. Try that at Borders next time you’re there.
So, those of you force to pass your lives in less-literary places (which I know better than to name) can come stay in my spare bed when the wife is away on business and absorb some second-hand Los Angeles culture. Don’t worry about your luggage; the post office still has a Book Rate, and it’s still cheaper than First Class.
http://www.calendarlive.com/books/cl-wk-cover17jul17.story
Michael ‘How did I end up with three copies of the Aeneid’ McGrorty
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