My friends are trying to sell the New England Mobile Book Fair, the area’s largest, and finest, independent bookstore. My prayers are with them. I cannot imagine a worse time to buy a bookstore.
I remember when it was fashionable to buy wineries in Sonoma County, a diverting pastime for the idle rich. There was a saying: How do you make $1 million in the wine business? You spend $10 million. Bookstores are the new wineries.
Why am I so pessimistic? Because I no longer hear the siren song of the Gutenbourgeois, a delightful coinage of former Harper’s contributing editor Paul Ford. You know who they are: Harvard library director Robert Darnton, essayist Sven Birkerts, and, until recently, me. People who drone on about the sanctity of the printed page, the “Republic of Letters,’’ the artifact of the book, yadda yadda yadda.
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