The Biblioracle visits his mecca
Powell’s in Portland, Ore., which has Chicago roots, is a book lover’s dream
If you are given a chance to tag along with your spouse to her professional continuing education conference and you are given a choice of destination — Las Vegas or Portland, Ore. — which do you choose?
Sure, Las Vegas has the glitz and glamour, gambling, entertainment and, of course, Cher, but it doesn’t have Powell’s Books, the “world’s largest independent bookstore,” which made the choice easy for your humble Biblioracle.
I’m not saying that I plan vacations around visiting iconic bookstores, but when we were fortunate enough to visit Paris a couple of years ago, the legendary Shakespeare and Co. was higher on my list of must-sees than the Louvre. If I’m in San Francisco, a visit wouldn’t be complete without a stop by City Lights Bookstore.
While Mrs. Biblioracle has been immersed in the latest findings on the fungi, viruses and bacteria that afflict companion animals, I have been wandering Powell’s 1.6 acres of retail space, making sure to close my mouth because my jaw seems to keep dropping in awe as each of the nine colorcoded rooms reveals itself to me.
The Portland institution has Chicago roots. Founder Walter Powell spent a summer working in his son Michael Powell’s Chicago bookstore, opened by the younger Powell in Hyde Park in 1970. Walter Powell opened the Portland store upon his return in 1971, and Michael joined him there in 1979.
Walking through the flagship Powell’s, which has expanded over the years to its current size, is almost more akin to walking through a large library collection than a bookstore. There is simply an amazing number of books.
Whenever I’m in the presence of so many books I experience a strange mix of elation and anxiety.
On the one hand, look at all those books! Having written some, the thought of the amount of human labor and individual passion that the collection of titles represents is inspiring. I am often pessimistic about human nature, but there’s something awesome about seeing these individual achievements collected together.
On the other hand, look at all those books! So many books, so little time. Even in a discrete, relatively small section (music biographies), I identified 37 titles I wouldn’t mind diving into. Even as a passionate and professional reader, that’s at least half a year’s material all by itself.
Ultimately, though, I find Powell’s to be a genuinely uplifting place, not just because the store is filled with books, but because it’s also filled with people.
My first visit on a Saturday (I’m actually on my third visit as I type this), the store was stuffed with humans looking every bit as awestruck as I felt. We bump into each other because we’re concentrating more on the shelves than where we’re walking. I wasn’t the only one who’d made a visit to a bookstore the centerpiece of their visit to Portland.
But the presence of humanity is palpable in a less obvious way as well: the fact that a huge proportion of the books at Powell’s are used, and each object betrays a little something about the hands it has passed through previously.
A copy of Laurie Colwin’s “Goodbye Without Leaving” has an inscription, “For Nan,” and judging from the condition of the book, it was well-loved. In fact, many of the books look well-loved, creased and bent, edges frayed, covers a little faded.
A nice row of pristine new releases may be aesthetically pleasing, but there’s something about seeing a bunch of books that have been so obviously read that stirs this reader’s soul.
Books do matter. They will always matter. The only question left is how much damage I’ll do to my bank account before we leave Portland.
Don’t tell Mrs. Biblioracle.