I pretty much grew up roaming around used bookstores. The way I see it, they’re the closest experience you can have to time travel: out-of-print books from bygone eras (often inscribed by people who may or may not be dead) and that musty smell of undusted shelves coated with fingerprints of people who have thumbed through the books before you.
So on Friday when I was strolling down St. Mark’s and I peered into this window, I was hit by a wave of nostalgia. I love that the owner is reading at the register. I love the lighting. I love the ceiling. Places like this made me who I am today. I’m no big success as a writer, but whatever I am…I owe to funky little used bookstores run by book lovers like this guy. No, this picture isn’t the best. But I didn’t want to risk being caught. It seemed like a violation; like I was a Peeping Tom, invading his reading time and the peaceful beauty of his shop. I had no way to tell him how much he meant to me, so I just snapped and hoped for the best, grateful to have experienced this quiet moment for myself.