As much as I love to read, I am not a book buyer, and I especially I don’t have any special feelings for independent book stores, which I equate with less selection and higher prices. I buy used books online via various marketplaces because, even with shipping, it’s normally cheaper than buying a new or a used book in a bookstore, and the selection is seemingly infinite. Or, far more often, I borrow books from the library. Other than the property taxes I pay, my local library is free, even for Interlibrary Loan requests from neighboring university libraries. FREE. I can read essentially anything in print (and much out of print) through a library request or via a public domain online text.
So, I suppose it is not surprising that Lewis Buzbee’s memoir of bookstores, The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop, did not do much for me. It is a combination of a history of bookselling and a memoir of his own addiction to bookstores, and I spent the bulk of the book wishing it was about a love of books or a love of the written word or a love of a specific author. I was the wrong audience, and I had been hoping for a different book. I also speed read it in order to have a post ready for the Spotlight Series today. If I hadn’t made that commitment, I’d probably not have finished it at all or I’d have read it slower. Maybe if I had not read it all at once, I would not have been as irritated by parts of it. I’m not a memoir person, and this volume reinforced that. Continue Reading