I was staying a dozen or so miles from New Haven when my
laptop crashed. After a fruitless couple of hours on the phone with a
technician it was mutually decided that I should visit the nearest Apple Store.
I was in a bit of a panic as I had a number of deadlines, so
I arrived 40 minutes early for my appointment. No dice! I was instructed to come back in
half-an-hour.
To my delight, Yale Book Store was next door. What a break!
As I was entering I realized that I hadn’t darkened such a door in a long time.
Strange, because I used to spend much time in both book and
record stores; yet it all seemed so long ago.
Whenever I had nothing to do, which was often enough, I
frequented a legion of such stores within walking distance of my East Village
apartment.
But even the notion that I had “nothing to do” seemed very
distant. I don’t know about you, but nowadays I have to write down a list of
the things I MUST do for fear of my universe collapsing, and another list of
things I SHOULD do before they too migrate to the cataclysmic column.
How did my life get so busy and needlessly complicated, I
wondered, as I stepped through the portals of Yale’s gleaming bookstore?
All was familiar - tables of cut-price tomes up front and in
the distance great shelves of volumes awaiting my touch and appreciation.
I smiled as I picked up a new edition of Justine by Lawrence
Durrell – I had bought my old battered copy thirty years ago at The Strand on
Broadway; it opened a universe that I’m still exploring.
I moved on to familiar sections: poetry, biography, history,
and of course, recent arrivals, for one must keep up with and support current
writers.
I saw a book by a new Irish author that had been well
reviewed. It was somewhat bulky and I knew in my heart that I’d never read it
in hard cover; no I’d buy it later on Amazon and read it on my phone or iPad.
A wave of sadness swept over me, as happens when one realizes
that an old romance is irrevocably over. When was the last time I read a hard
cover – bulky or otherwise?
With a pang of guilt I had to admit that I long ago gave away
my treasured collection of LPs – battered and scratched though they may have
been.
To add insult to injury I had recently been wondering if I
had any more need of my CD collection. Shouldn’t I be converting all my
favorites? After all, the writing now appears to be on the wall for CD
players.
Where would it all end? And then I realized that I was some
minutes late for my Apple appointment. I rushed next door.
My “genius “impatiently awaited me – smile firmly attached,
but no doubt wondering if this analog miscreant was going to blow his
appointment.
To make a long story short, the genius fixed my computer and
explained in detail what had gone wrong. Once I realized I’d make my deadlines
I blanked her out. I knew I’d never remember the helpful advice anyway.
I had other matters on my mind. To hell with deadlines! I
strode back into the hallowed halls of Yale Bookstore. I picked up the
voluminous Collected Stories by William Trevor then made a dash for the Classics
shelves.
I knew it would be there – Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost
Time. I had last tried to read Volume One on the riotous Black 47 tour bus back
in 1994. Not a prayer - I had thrown in the towel long before we staggered into
Cleveland.
Will I ever read Monsieur Proust? Probably not, but I
grabbed it anyway - another foolish act of defiance? Perhaps, but even a couple
of chapters might work wonders on my frazzled digitized brain!
I even made a vow while speeding out of New Haven - less
deadlines and more reflection! About the same chance as the president swearing
off tweeting!
Still, stranger things have happened – or have they?
