Thanks Katie for informing me of this recent news piece:

http://brooklynbased.net/everything/store-pets/

Be sure to check out the slide show! The pictures are priceless (especially of Marjorie and Karrthus).

Some books that have been next to my reading chair in a wee pile:

The Good Life: Helen and Scott Nearing Sixty Years of Self-Sufficient Living by Helen and Scott Nearing

A good read about this couple who absconded from New York during the Depression to escape the world of wage labor and start a sugaring farm in Vermont. Lots of information about how they built their stone house in a dell, what they did for power, why they did what they did.

Five Acres and Independence by M.G. Kains

Slightly outdated, but fascinating and still full of useful information. Kains’ practical discussions help to actually visualize what it takes to begin small scale farming, en route to becoming self-sufficient. A classic of the back to the land movement.

One Man’s Meat by E.B. White

White’s beautifully written musings during his time on a salt farm in Maine. Wonderful short essays about life in a small town, farming and what it means, as well as larger concerns like World War II, which was going on when these essays were written. What he writes here will resonate with anyone thinking of a simpler life, and probably anyone who’s not.

This is just the short stack that I’ve been dabbling in. There are surely more to come. Any suggestions?

The New York Times just published their list of the 10 best books of 2009. You can read their picks here.

Stay tuned for Community Bookstore’s own list of holiday gift suggestions, coming soon to a website and paper newsletter near you!

Congratulations to this year’s winners! Go here for more information. 

NONFICTION: T.J. Stiles, The First Tycoon: The Epic Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt

POETRY: Keith Waldrop, Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy

YOUNG PEOPLE’ S LITERATURE: Phillip Hoose, Claudette Colvin: Twice Toward Justice

Go to the New York Times website to read this interesting article about how some of the big chains sell books, and how it’s damaging to the industry as a whole:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/23/books/23price.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=wal%20mart%20grisham&st=cse

Congratulations to Hilary Mantel who beat very talented competition to win the prestigious Man Booker Prize for her tale of political intrigue set during the reign of King Henry VIII, Wolf Hall.

Order it here.

. . . was the winner of the “our favorite customer of the day” award this week (well, you know what I mean).  She came up to the counter just as I was scrambling my way out from behind it, trying to rush off to an appointment, so I only caught some of her splendor, but I stayed long enough to note her sensible hat – oh wait, or was it an elaborate hat? It was at any rate a hat which somehow loudly managed to declare “I am the sort of hat worn firmly and sensibly by firm and sensible German ladies!”  She marched up to the counter, planted herself firmly in front of it, and placed a copy of “What Is Anarchism?: An Introduction” squarely aligned on said counter.  “I vood like to ask you vot kinds of books Americans are reading, now.” She said clearly.  “I am Tcherman,” she added, enunciating clearly.  Bruce, no doubt transfixed by the Hat, didn’t respond immediately, so she added helpfully “Are dey reading Thick books or Thin books?” Bruce at this point, I think, was simply blinking.  She pressed her lips together and tried again:  “Vot about this Book?” She tapped a firm finger on the Anarchism book she’d placed on the counter.  “Is this a Funny book?”  At which point I fled the store, giggling. 

The National Book Foundation needs your help! Help them choose the best of the National Book Awards Fiction from among these six finalists. By voting you’ll be entered into a drawing to win two tickets to the 60th National Book Awards on November 18, 2009 and two nights in the Marriott Hotel Downtown, compliments of Marriott!

To vote, go here.

Here I am sitting at my messy little desk, in my bedroom in Brooklyn. It’s a warm day, but not as hot as it has been. The sun has passed behind the buildings so it’s that late afternoon light, a little gray, but peaceful, and in the distance I can hear lazy late Saturday afternoon sounds – my neighbor just sneezed! Some plates are being stacked, a door shuts. It is very peaceful here, and I am sitting and writing because there is a different sort of peace inside me. An excited peace, if you know what I mean, because I have just been somewhere amazing.

My friend Stacy asked me to go and be a guest speaker at a summer writing workshop she’s running for the PEN Foundation. I said yes, because she’s my friend, and because I know she does good work so I’m sure whatever she’s asking me to be part of is noble, and because, heck, if there’s one thing I can do, it’s talk. But I didn’t really understand what it was about.

This is why at noon today I was rushing down the street wearing a proper dress and proper shoes, dragging my dogs home to throw them in the door, and then flinging myself onto the (stinking hot) subway platform. Why I was wandering down Broadway with a crumpled piece of paper with directions in my hand (Stacy must have taped the paper to the inside of my gate in the middle of the night, in a plastic bag so the rain wouldn’t ruin them. I found it in the morning, and laughed out loud: You’ve got mail!). Why I signed in at the front desk of the sort of marble building that usually makes me nervous, and took the elevator up to the third floor.

Inside Suite 303, the workshop had already started. Kay, the intern, brought me water, and explained kindly when I asked “Er, what exactly is this class, and, um, what would you like me to talk about?” that this was a writing workshop for talented young writers who go to the sorts of schools that probably wouldn’t normally provide them with this kind of experience. That these were young people for whom “literature” (and more importantly: the world of books) might not be a normal part of their everyday lives. It would be nice if I could talk about the bookstore that I own, why I’ve chosen it as my life, what it’s like there, what it costs and what it gives. Basically (again, if I understood it correctly), make this place that they’ve never been or seen, or maybe even heard of, real.

Okay, I thought. I can do that.

I’ll talk about where I came from, how I ended up here. I’ll show them the pictures of the store which I brought on my laptop – and the pictures will naturally lead to the stories that are attached to all the objects in the store – that’ll take a while – and then, once they can picture and imagine the place, I can talk just a little about why and how books, which are really stories, lead naturally to the existence of this funny little world, this bizarre, perfectly imperfect little utopia, which is my bookstore.

So I start talking. I am the child of two academics, English professors. I grew up in the world of books, of stories, so it is home to me. I talk about how I found myself, accidentally in the bookstore, when I was 24 years old, and stayed. I show the pictures, and talk and talk and talk. I am telling stories. And they are listening to me, and laughing, and . . . . something amazing happens. I tell them, early on, how sometimes, at night, I find myself working late, and I look up, see the warm light, the richness of the red carpet, and all around me on the walls, the 15,000 books that live there. They are around every corner, covering every available vertical and horizontal space – and I think: My god. I am in Aladdin’s cave. I am in a treasure cave. There are 15,000 stories around me – all of mankind, all of history, hope, dreams, passion, love – life. This is rich. I am rich.

In telling them, I am suddenly filled with the wonder of this world I have lived in, and I look at them, these beautiful young people, and I think I see the wonder in them, too. The joy. They are listening.

We live in a world of stories! Amazing! And I start talking more. I tell them story after story about what stories mean to me: That they let me live inside of other people, that they let me understand other people. That once I’ve read a story about someone and understood them, I can never hate or be unkind to them again. That this is why it is so important that people tell their stories. And why it’s so important that people read them. Why books matter. I am dizzy suddenly. I can see it, you see. If we could all speak, and all listen, all understand and know each other – Imagine. And why not? And this is how we do it. We tell each other our stories.

I find myself telling them that it is stories which allow me to be brave: When faced with a situation I don’t know how to negotiate, when I am frightened, I ask myself: If this were a story, how would I want it to go? Who would I want to be in the story? And then I know what I have to do. It is stories which have taught me how to at least want to be heroic.

But this isn’t all: I find myself telling them that stories don’t just make you empathetic, they don’t just allow you be a better person. Suddenly, I find that I am saying: Stories are even more than that. Stories are knowledge, and knowledge is strength. I am saying: For example, if you are faced with a situation of conflict, and you can imagine being the other person, can understand what makes them tick: You win. You will be able to run rings around them, particularly if they don’t understand you.

I find myself telling them about Elisabeth, who said to me on the ferry to Trieste: “A Wish is a Decision.” I tell them that they have helped me understand this, because a wish is of course a story we tell ourselves about the future, a story we hope will come true. And a story, you see, is a powerful thing. Telling a story, a good story (I mean a strong, true, plausible story) about something is a way of proving that it could exist. And if it could exist, it can. And if you want it, it will.

I am sitting here, at my small messy desk, in my bedroom in Brooklyn, and it is very peaceful, and I am very excited. From the outside, I am just a woman sitting at a desk, but I am excited. The world around me seems very rich, and very magical, and very . . . . possible.

Those beautiful, brave young people. I think they gave me a great gift today. I know they did. They listened to me, as I told my story. I look around at each of them, in memory now, unique and lovely, and I am so excited. Because they have stories. They are learning to tell them. They will tell them.

Please, God, let them tell their stories? I am so eager to hear them. I want, you see, to know them.