us by all too quickly it seems. One moment you're declaring that people
over thirty can't be trusted, the next you're fifty and wondering where
all the time went. And, all around you, the world changes. So you stir
up the old ashes, mutter a Latin tag from High School, and remember
that used to be. For me, one such memory, lost in time and space, is
Avenue in Manhattan, between Cooper Union and Fourteenth Street. Used
and great conversation, tobacco in the air, mingling with that smell
can only come from old books. The Abbey, Pagaent, Dauber & Pine,
and Tannen, one by one, they've all slipped away. And people no longer
solve all the world's problems on rainy afternoons while walking the
For a while, it looked like Brooklyn Heights would take up the slack.
Colton's Borough Books, on Montague, and down near the Bridge, Jack
"retirement" store, along with Charlie Brown and his "Book Gallerie".
they too have slipped into the mists that make up our yesterdays. It's
a brand new day, and Sam Colton with his pipe, his opinions and his
of everything old is quaint, antiquated and out of place. Except, I
Below are the stacks.
to browse, pick up a book and examine it. Ask the bookseller a
or just make a comment. Smoke if you got 'em. Pick through, look for
treasure. And, coming or going, paw through the books for a buck in the
rack outside. In this little corner of Cyberspace, it's yesterday, it's
raining, and the world is filled with the smell of old books.
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