A Literary Sanctuary

Every now and then, you find a place that feeds your soul; a place where time stops, the stresses of the day melt away, and you can immerse yourself in oblivion.  The time you spend there is cathartic, a walking meditation on life, or an exploration of newly discovered interests. 

For everyone, this place might be different- a cathedral where the light streams in red, blue and green through the stained glass windows; a hike in the mountains where your shouts and laughter will only be heard by the marmots; a dance club where the music thrumbs through your body to the time of your own heartbeat.

For me, it is a book store.  Not just any book store, it is a book lover’s store.  This kind of book store is generally (though not always) a used book store.  Whether it is tidy or cramped, fastidiously organized or a natural disaster, there is a certain feel to it.  You want to run your fingers across the spines of books lined up as if you were in a fabric store playing with the reams of silk and velvet.  There is often a certain scent in the air, from the accumulation of so much paper and the dust and mold that come along with it. 

That first visit to a new store is like an exploration of the wilderness and a spiritual retreat rolled into one.  You wander the aisles learning where the different sections are and remember books that you want to read from areas that you won’t typically peruse once you are familiar with the store. 

Today, I finally made it to the Book House in Rock Hill.  I had been meaning to go for several months, but I wanted to go when I knew I would have a couple of hours to just wander through the stacks.  In some ways, I should never have waited, in others, I think that the trip would always have been emotionally draining for me.

From the street, you can tell that the Book House has great potential to be an awesome book store.  It is in a small old house that is set back off of Manchester.  But when you step inside, it hits you; this is book lover’s paradise.  There are shelves of books from floor to ceiling along every wall and in every nook and cranny that a few pages of bound paper can be made to fit. Walking up and down the stairs between floors, you have to stop to see what books are along the wall, or on the bookcase in front of you. 

Hand lettered signs hang throughout the store pointing the way to different section of books, including a very helpful sign saying that if you are looking for books on the History of the South, try the bottom shelf on the left.  (I would note that to get to that shelf, you will need to move the piles of books out from in front of it, and probably have to figure out where to put the piles that you just moved.)

In many ways, though I had never set foot in the store, it was a trip down memory lane for me.  Many of my old friends were there (offhand, Harry Potter, Isabelle Allende, Jim Butcher, Ray Bradbury, and Starhawk).  The hoard of books brought to mind the scene in Fahrenheit 451 where the woman lights her own house on fire with herself in it rather than be parted from her books.  Most wrenching perhaps, was thinking how much one of my old friends would have enjoyed exploring the store with me, and the laughter we would have shared as we both spent way too much money on books to add to our already over flowing shelves. 

So, I picked up a book on solitude (Thoreau’s Walden) and a reminder of humanity’s foibles (C. S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters), added The Book House to my list of personal retreats, and stopped for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream.

The Book House: http://www.bookhousestl.com/