The Stories of Possibility

thriving. Blackwell’s in Oxford, Malaprop’s in North Carolina, and Rizzoli in New York City are a few of the others around the world where I’ve spent many an hour roaming the stacks until a book would find me. I have a particular affinity for the Tattered Cover: a few years ago, it successfully resisted the release of a list of customers’ purchases to law enforcement, based on First Amendment rights. This is a bookstore with a solid moral center. For me, a bookstore is more than just a storehouse of information; it’s a sensual experience. When I first enter one of these stores, I’ll pause and draw in a deep breath, taking in the scent of leather and paper and bindings, all whispering the stories of possibility. Now, I’m admittedly old school when it comes to books: you can take my books away from me when you pry them from my cold, dead hands. I like to hold a physical book, because there’s something about that form factor that cannot be reproduced in an electronic reader, especially if that book has considerable images in it. This life choice does have consequences, however. My office is overflowing with books, and when I travel,