I Work In A Bookstore: A Mantra

I work in a bookstore. I work in an environment where the truest, most pertinent reality that surrounds you is the written word. The principle role I play, while at work, is to put a book into the hand of the customer which he or she will derive enjoyment from. Putting aside my presumptions of just what it is that makes up a good book I can see that the people in front of me are looking for something to engulf themselves in, something to take them away from their troubles, their pains – even if they are hoping to engross themselves in the troubles and pains of another; even if they are only wanting the written word so that they can know that they are not alone, that somebody else, be they fictitious or factual, has gone through the trepidations they are, or have, gone through.

I work in a bookstore. I’m in the business of selling books; but more than that, I’m in the business of providing solace, of peddling excitement, of funneling tears. For every problem there is a fix. For every person there is an anachronism to dive in to. I put the sunshine in summer and I place the cold in a cold-hearted winter. I hawk the love stories no one has ever been able to live up to, and I furnish the food for the fantasies which few have hoped to see.

I work in a bookstore. Sometimes I like to stop and look around at all the books, I imagine them as houses, holding the words which strengthen the reserve of those who need strengthening, giving solace to the words which uplift the spirit and take the burden from the wearied soul. I look around and wonder at how many words there really are in the store. I wonder whether it is even able to be quantified. How many words are there in a bookstore full of books, each of them quartering legions of words? All of this, the books, and the words, and the people who are searching – searching for the right books, searching for the right words – make you look at life a little more cheerfully, they make you see that the world is more than skin, and bones, and dirt and alones. We are all searching; maybe we are ships passing in the night, but at least we’re all ships, and at least we’re on the same sea, and at least we’re using the same winds to fill our sails to push us on, toward wherever it is that we imagine will fill our souls.

I work in a bookstore. It’s really not such a bad thing when you take the time to look at it. The time I spend earning my living coincides and intersects with the time spent by others to earn their freedom, their knowledge, their escape, their peace – and that’s what living really is, isn’t it?