That said, the aspect of Borders’ implosion that troubles me is that there will be 399 fewer places to take part in the communal act of book buying, which is a completely separate activity from reading (see: regular bookstore lurkers who never purchase a thing). As corporate as it has become, Borders began as an independent bookstore in Ann Arbor, Michigan in 1979. Tom and Louis Borders bought out the aging Wahr’s store at 316 South State, and they hired a local rare books restorer to stock it lovingly with unique reading material. The restorer kept a binding workshop upstairs. It expanded into the impersonal, sprawling latte experience that we know today, but Borders started small, and it grew out of a love for the shared browsing experience.

Bookstores are very special places, even the behemoths. They provide a space for cultural dilettantism. You can get lost in them for hours, perusing covers and picking up obscure titles. They are dedicated to discovery and are curated by some of the most dedicated retail employees around (even to get hired at a large corporate chain, one is still required to exhibit a sharp passion for reading).

 

I love that phrase, ‘cultural dilettantism.’ Yes, I am a cultural dilettante (is that the same as a ‘cultural omnivore?’) and yes, I treasure spaces that welcome the practice of cultural dilettantism. Even Borders was capable of providing that space. Often when accompanying my better half on shopping expeditions, I would take refuge in a chain bookstores like Borders or Barnes & Noble or in a Starbucks. I also actively browse the shelves of my neighborhood used bookstore just to experience the sensation of being surrounded by so many examples of the written store of our civilization’s knowledge or will make an expedition to one of my favorite independent bookstores without a particular book in mind, but just with intention of finding a new book of poetry or a poetry ‘zine or some heretofore unknown to me book of history or philosophy. I will sit in a comfortable coffeehouse just to spend an hour reading from a book and taking some notes away from the distractions of home and television.

I am a cultural dilettante and I must mourn whenever a space for me to practice my particular form of mediation and contemplation (or perhaps mediation between the world and my understanding of it) disappears.