My son Truman visited the Strand Bookstore in New York City last week. An ambitious reader himself, Truman knew his bibliophilic adventures would pique my curiosity, so he texted me pictures of the storefront and the poetry shelves.
Looking at the rows of titles, I recalled my favorite quotation by philosopher Mortimer Adler: “In the case of good books, the point is not to see how many of them you can get through, but rather how many can get through to you.” Years ago, I treated books as relics of genius, believing that close reading would expand my ambitions and abilities.
As a thank-you gift for my wife Kate’s brother and his wife, Truman purchased a coffee table book about Broadway, both devoted theater fans. Truman recently watched Nathan Lane and Laurie Metcalf in Death of a Salesman, proof that New York still showcases extraordinary actors the way the Strand showcases great books.
Something about those poetry shelves in Truman’s photos—the colorful spines and the scope of the collection—sent me straight back to the spring of 1988. That year, I took the train from Boston to New York City to meet my mother, who traveled up from Washington, D.C. My Uncle Alan and Aunt Barbara lived on the Upper West Side in a beautiful two-bedroom apartment overlooking Central Park. They possessed the finest view of anyone I knew, a panoramic vista that filled me with wonder and appreciation for America’s grandest city.
We visited the Natural History Museum, where my uncle served as director. We also strolled past the midtown public library, an institution whose grand lions and long history perhaps inspired my mother to become a librarian. We dined in small restaurants, where this Godfather fan kept his eyes open for gangsters, and eventually sought out the Strand Bookstore.
My mother and I walked the aisles together, she gravitating toward history and I toward poetry. I selected several titles, accumulating a stack almost too heavy to carry, including a massive tome of Allen Ginsberg’s collected poems. The next day, as I prepared to return to Boston, I realized the literary haul exceeded the capacity of my suitcase. To solve the dilemma, I donned two full layers of clothing to free up space for the books.
After bidding farewell to my mother at the 96th Street and Central Park West subway entrance, I descended to the platform and purchased a subway token. Eager to read, I found a secluded bench, sat down, and pulled out a fresh book of poetry.
A few minutes later, a man approached me. He claimed to have a gun in his pocket and demanded my wallet. Barely thinking, I stood up and locked eyes with him. In that moment, I realized I towered over him. Bulked up by layers of clothing, I looked larger and more formidable than I was. Sensing his hesitation, I spoke firmly: “Look, just cut it out, all right?”
I turned my back on the man and walked away, dragging my overweight rolling suitcase. I marched toward the nearest stranger and sat down uncomfortably close to him. Because the exit lay in that same direction, the would-be mugger had to run right past me to flee the station. My Allen Ginsberg collection remained secure.
In retrospect, I doubt the man possessed a weapon, and I certainly recognize that I lacked good sense. Typically, muggers injure those who resist, and my instinctive defiance came with serious risk. Yet, I successfully protected my wallet, an item that held virtually nothing anyway because I had spent my last dollar on books. The poetry had cleaned me out long before the mugger got the chance. My remaining funds covered only my MBTA train fare from South Station to my BU Central Green Line stop.
Sitting beside that stranger, with my mother only a few blocks away above ground, I felt the adrenaline fade. Burdened with literary ambitions and my heavy books, I felt a tremor starting in my hands. Soon I felt the entire world shake, and indeed it did, as the southbound C train finally roared into the station.
I hope you can join us for the pub quiz at Sudwerk tonight. Expect questions on these topics: African geography, airports, Arthurian legends, Baroque masterpieces, candy, cars, cartoons, Catholic hangouts, countries, dance halls, demolished buildings, extraterrestrial communication, geniuses, hiatus-takers, imaginary small towns, imports and exports, inquisitive people, internet embarrassments, inventors, languages, literary children, lovely cities, metals, Middle Eastern diplomacy, pitchers, proteins, rivals, scrambled religious folks, Sony, soul music, starship captains, universities, books and authors, science and technology, sports, and Shakespeare!