But probably I never will.
I like that it’s there, on my street, small and haughty. I like its collaged and unorganized window displays. I like how, by the simple miracle of walking by it, I feel as if I am supporting something independent and community-sustained. I live in a neighborhood that still has an independent bookstore, after all.
I just hate everything in it.
I resent how it invites me to just “drop on in” all nonchalant and casual, but never stocks anything I want to read. This is a tease and it puts me in a bad mood.
Their history section perpetuates the myth that history is about war. This brute oversight I might allow if the bookstore featured a cultural studies section, a sociology section, an ethnic studies section, and/or current affairs section.
But it doesnt. Apparently, to this day, men and their wars made all of history.
The philosophy, oh, I should say ‘philosophy/religion’ area leaves me underserved–a scant volume of Foucault, a book that teaches me how to read tea leaves in my urine. Also in this section: “My Inner Goddess and Her Love for Chocolate Cake.”
The very inaccurately genre’d “essays” area is half full with fiction anthologies. The poetry section is comprised of Shakespeare sonnets and the odd Ogden Nash.
I often attempt to support Bookcourt, only to storm off to the Barnes and Noble two blocks away. it has occured to me to speak to their manager–please stop buying books that suck–because i want it to pull through so badly. My inner goddess is keeping me in check for now.