On bookstores

I’m always up for going into the next bookstore. I’ve been addicted to books my whole life, but I don’t see that as a bad thing. I don’t necessarily need to be looking for any particular book. I am always content with just browsing through the novels, perusing the non-fiction, rejecting any and all self-help books (none of them work anyway). Hard cover, soft cover, trade paperbacks, I don’t particularly care as long as the whole book is there. Old, new, books are always a new adventure, even when they are old. I can read titles, leaf through random volumes, dawdle over a well-written preface, linger over an undiscovered novel that I had no idea existed at all. I am capricious, following no line of logic or organized pattern of searching. Real discovery occurs when you break-out of pre-established lines of thought or prejudice, adopting a chaotic, non-linear anti-process for discovering new titles. Bookstores, especially independent bookstores, or even better, used bookstores, are a savage jungle of titles, authors, and narratives, meta and other. Upon entering a bookstore I don’t always have an objective in mind, and I have no problem with walking out empty-handed. At this point in my life, I have enough books to serve me for a good long time, and some books need to be left behind for future reading endeavors. Yet, you never know when you might come across something new (or old) that really speaks to you. You have to be open to everything when you walk into a bookstore.