When I reached the BART I caught the train across the glittering San Francisco bay to Berkleigh, and made my way along Telegraph Avenue, past the crowds of students and shoppers, to the famous Moe's Books. Inside, I felt the weight of stories not just on my shoulders, but also above me in the four levels filled with tall shelves and thousands of ageing titles. It was humbling.
I sifted slowly through the sale items, and for a moment I felt like Abe Sapien, the fictional merman from the comic book series, Hellboy. Bookish and curious, when he touches objects his psychometric powers allow him to see their past. I cringed as I turfed the books that didn't interest me, imagining not just the visions of these authors, but the painful cost of their production, from the endless hours spent writing, redrafting and editing, to paying for the housing and distribution all those printed words. I forget sometimes when I'm reading on the screen.
I handed over a twenty to the beardy store assistant and he opened the register and rung up Jaron Lanier's You Are Not A Gadget and Jonathon Latham's The Disappointment Artist. They seemed good buys for hammering out stories in a digital age.
My host learned of my book buying journey and recommended Green Apple Books in Richmond, the northwest part of the city. Her advice was a perk from using AirBnB, a website for short-term accommodation. In the home of Apple and Google I was avoiding eBooks, but had taken full advantage of technology to navigate through the city's streets, and to find a cheap and comfy couch to sleep on in the Castro.
){kind=icon}
){kind=icon}
){kind=icon}
){kind=icon}
){kind=icon}
){kind=icon}
)
)
)
)
)
.jpg(0))
)
)