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It’s research season, and life lately feels like a series of broken vignettes: early mornings at cafes after a late night at the library, followed by my favourite part of a day of writing: wandering around bookshops without an aim.
I stumbled into a bookshop on a Saturday morning and looked for nothing in particular. I flicked through a few pages of a biography before darting off to the classics and repeated the same mindless wander near the visual art section. After about twenty minutes, I looked around me and realised everyone at the store was doing very much the same thing: quietly flicking through books and then gently placing them back onto the shelves. Something about the bookshop: the footsteps of patrons, the smell of books and the gloss from the wooden floor reminded me of another place I liked. It felt familiar but I couldn’t quite voice what it was. I turned to my left and saw a lady looking at the wall of poetry books with her index finger to her chin. And then, it hit me.
The bookshop felt like an art gallery.
The comparison was more poignant that morning. I saw the bookshop as a deeply paradoxical space, and this retail space permits a rare goalless lingering while other stores want you out right after your purchase.
In most cases, anticipation drives typical retail spaces, and within minutes this anticipation is resolved: someone would give you a hand or you would’ve found what you needed. The most sensible thing to do is to exit the shop right after the transaction because any lingering will start to feel strained and awkward once the purchase tension is gone. Hence an empty store is usually the natural state of a retail space since the store will open empty and close empty. It is there to ground transactions, not necessarily to be there in its own right. This is why new retail staff tend to report an uneasy feeling of unheimlich because they’re forced to stay put in a space that’s not designed for lingering.
Bookshops, however, permit a completely different relationship with customers. The interactions between staff and customers are kept at a minimum (in pleasant bookshops, at least), and the store is usually populated with reading chairs and couches. One quickly gets the impression that no one’s in a hurry to resolve anticipation, but rather, the space tries to hold you back. They trap you in an intricate maze, prolonging the time you’ll spend in front of each shelf in case you find something unexpected. The resolve for the anticipation is deferred, and in the case of some obscure second-hand bookshop, entirely negated (not every book is for sale, kid). The point isn’t what you’ll end up buying but how long you’ll spend in the store. Hence an empty bookshop always looks more jarring than any other retail space. Its purpose isn’t to ground transactions but to invite customers to slow down and contemplate.
This is how I always end up with extra purchases after I walk out of a bookshop. The extended time to think down the aisles revealed titles I hadn’t considered, topics I once ignored and stories that halted my steps. My mind became truly receptive and open in a contemplative state, and a well-stocked shelf was always ready to supply insights.
In this case, books enchant us in a different way when we’re curiously lost. And the books we buy when we’re in this trance are usually not influenced by other people’s opinions, allowing us to listen to ourselves while being isolated from the world, if only for a little while.
So, I say treat every bookshop visit like a stroll through an art gallery. Contemplate the titles, the first page of a novel, a stanza of a poem and take it all in. You’ll walk out with a bag full of books you’ve curated by yourself, for yourself.
Best of luck during research season—I’ve had plenty of those and miss them occasionally. This is a thoughtful observation about what makes bookstores feel so magical: the invitation to linger, the permission to idly observe, and the promise of discovery. In doing so, it also creates an ambient sense of community—just browsing and lazing about with your fellow readers. What I appreciate most about this post, though, is how it throws into relief what we often lose with e-books (of which I read plenty) and digital bookstores like Amazon. All we’re left with is the transaction and none of the magic. Thanks as always Robin for an insightful read.
You put words on such a nice universal feeling, thank you for this calming read.