Turn Off Your Computer

Turn it off.

Don’t read this. I really wish you wouldn’t. So please do both me and yourself a favour and turn this off. It’s true that this is a blog. And I’ve been writing this blog for the past few days. There’s a first time for everything. But I don’t find it very satisfying. So I would prefer that you read books, articles, letters, and the like that have been published in print.

Thankfully, very few people will read this. And I don’t want you to either. So don’t. If you care about books, music, and film, then turn this thing off, if you can bear to, and go read a book; write a letter; pick out an album, look at the artwork, and put it on and listen to it from beginning to end; or grab a video or DVD and watch it.

I love all kinds of books, movies, and music. I love these objects. People say I am real gourmand for loving these things so democratically. But I just can’t get used to a reality in which these works of art have lost their physical form. It’s true that there are still bookstores, still video stores and movie theatres, still music stores, still stationery stores, and the objects in them. But these places, and the objects inside them, seem to be disappearing. Friedrich Engels (and Marshall Berman) suggests that “All that is solid melts into air.” And these places and objects seem to be doing just that, melting into air. 

So enjoy your neighbourhood while it lasts, because these stores seem to be disappearing from a lot of neighbourhoods. I don’t know what’s supposed to replace them. And enjoy these objects, because these objects seem to be disappearing, too. I think we all know what’s replacing them. And I don’t like it. I don’t really want any part of it. I don’t want to read your favourite blog, or download your favourite song, film, or book.

But if you’ve got an object, something I can hold in my hands, I’ll give it a try. If you’ve got an album you want me to listen to, I’ll listen to it twenty times. If you’ve got a film you want me to watch on my VCR or DVD player, I’ll watch it five times. If you’ve got a book, you’d like me to read, I’ll read it. And then what friends we’ll be. But don’t read this blog. Turn it off. But if you’re at a music store, a book store, a video store, a stationery store, I’ll see you there—and we’ll have lots to talk about.  

Three Cheers for the Stationery Store

Write with this.

Whatever happened to the stationery store? There used to be a great small stationery store in my neighbourhood. I can’t remember for sure, but I think it was called Eastside Graphics. I loved this place for several years. I used to go there to buy all of my pens, paper, and office supplies. I especially loved to buy a new journal to write in from that store. They were gorgeous journals. But the store is gone now.

 

Unlike the bookstore, the music store, and the video store, the stationery store thrives. Places like Staples and Office Depot continue to do brisk business selling paper and related products in large quantities. But I regret the loss of the smaller stationery store for a couple of reasons. 

Of course we’ve had the fax machine, email, instant messaging, Skype, blogging, and the like for many years. But to me, the demise of the small stationery store is just one more sad thing signalling the demise of the personal letter. Like the book, the CD, and the DVD, the letter is an object. It is an object that that buoys the relationship between the sender and the receiver. It takes effort to buy the paper, the envelope, the pen. It takes time to write the letter and address the envelope. There is effort in mailing the letter and it takes even more effort for someone to deliver it. 

All of this effort in creating the letter and getting it to the receiver does much to honour the sender, regardless of the letter’s content. And because the letter, like the book, is an object, the receiver benefits from being able to touch it, to hold it. The letter takes on the form of a gift. On the other hand, instant messaging and email, for example, don’t honour the receiver as much as the letter does. They’re too fast, too easy: there’s no object, no gift.  

The demise of the stationery store and the art of letter writing have also led to the demise of something else: handwriting. Umberto Eco laments the decline of this art. He, like all good primary school teachers, understands the important brain/body connection that comes from the practice of handwriting. For many years I used to print in my journals at home: it was fast and easy. But about ten years ago, I returned to handwriting. It’s slower and more difficult, but it’s a lovely experience. I think people who write should try handwriting.

Generally, in recent years, I’ve been getting my journals and other office supplies from a local drug store; and specifically, I’ve been stealing all of my pens from other people at work. This obviously can’t go on. I still miss my old stationery store. I liked being there. It won’t be the same, but from now on, I am resolved to try to re-create the excellent experience I enjoyed at my old favourite stationery store. I’m going purchase my journals from Artrageous Pictures and Framing. And if I can stop my pen thieving, I’ll head downtown to the Vancouver Pen Shop.

Three Cheers for the Video Store

Watch these.

Whatever happened to the video store? Like the bookstore and the music store, the video store and the objects it houses is disappearing. And I think it’s disappearing for the same reasons the bookstore and music store are. The video store is important for many reasons. But it is especially important because of the people who work there. 

One of my favourite video stores of all time was The Celluloid Drugstore on Commercial Drive. It existed for a few years. And I loved it. I loved it for its vast and eclectic collection of titles, which rivaled the best video stores in the city; and I loved it for the organization of its titles by country, by director, by theme. But mostly I loved it for the people who worked there. They were so passionate about film and so knowledgeable, it was a pleasure to be in the store with them. 

The proprietor had a sense of humour but took film very seriously. And he expected that of his customers. He loved the classics and knew them inside out. He had high standards about the aesthetics of film. His ethos regarding this would make Proust’s characters look like philistines. 

Many of his customers were of like mind and shared his passion for film. Others merely wanted to rent an amusing movie to relax with. While these others were completing their transactions, the proprietor would sometimes utter, “You enjoy that,” in a withering tone. I often delighted at the confused and hurt expressions of the customers as they walked out of the store. I was not immune to this treatment either. But I didn’t care. One doesn’t object to being insulted by a great Master.

The thing I enjoyed most about going The Celluloid Drugstore was the opportunity to learn about film. I would walk into the store, choose my video, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, a conversation would start that went something like this:

Me: I’m not likely to take a course in film history, but I would like to learn. What do you suggest?

Proprietor: Well, of course, you have to start with Citizen Kane. After that I’d watch all the films of John Ford. Did you ever notice that all of Ford’s movies have a big dance scene in them?

Or

Me: What’s your favourite movie about the Vietnam War?

Proprietor: Well, the thing about Apocalypse Now that impresses me is the use of Wagner music. You know Wagner hated Jewish people. The Nazis loved Wagner and played this music in the concentration camps. The American soldiers play this music to the Vietnamese. It’s the music of genocide.

I had many conversations like this with the proprietor. And not just with him, but with other employees at the store, and with the employees at other video stores. The British librarian Michael Gorman states that libraries are important because they are storehouses of the human record. And I think video stores are like this, too. And they are keepers of the human record because of the people that work there.

I think the video store is disappearing faster than either the book store or the music store. And not just the big ones like Blockbuster; or the venerable ones, like Videomatica. In the past two years, four independent video stores in my neighbourhood along a stretch of ten blocks have gone under. Only Black Dog prevails. Long may it live. You store clerks of Black Dog are preserving a treasure. And the former store clerks of Alpha Video: I will remember you with great fondness and admiration for years to come.

Three Cheers for Books

Read this

I recently read Sara Barbour’s op-ed piece, “Kindles vs. Books: the dead trees society.” I’ve never read a Kindle, except over the shoulders of some (very efficient-looking) people on the bus. So I can’t claim to have any expertise with them, or any other e-reader. Like Barbour, I love books and I agree with many of the ideas she puts forward in her article.


Like Barbour, I also delight in the sheer volume of pages represented by the books on my shelves. I have too many books on my shelves and every year I must get rid of a few so that there is room for new ones. But I do love to look at their spines. Every read book is an accomplishment for the reader. And just as hikers will take pride in having climbed a particular mountain, readers will take pride in knowing they have read Henry James, or Virginia Woolf, or David Foster Wallace, or Zadie Smith. Having the physical book reminds readers of their accomplishments.

I also like Barbour's ideas about the book as a gift. The specificity of the book as a gift has the power to dignify both the giver and the receiver.  How many times have I been delighted by the gift of a book from a friend? The gift is the book itself, of course. But another gift related to this is the deepening of the relationship when both giver and receiver have read the same book. It’s something for the two to remember and talk about for years. The gift of a book promises more gifts to come: “I’ll give you another next time.” A gift of a Kindle, on the other hand, implies for me a kind finality: “This is the last gift you’ll ever get."

I admire as well Barbour’s notions about books as objects, there to be looked at, lifted, carried, dog-eared. The reader has a physical relationship with the book. I love the physical presence of a book. The Kindle’s GUI is perhaps nice to look at and the device perhaps easy to carry, but I don’t think it can match the sensory satisfaction of a book.

Umberto Eco recently had something to say about the virtue of the book as object as well. I can’t recall the specifics of the interview, but he stated that books are important because you can’t improve on the technology. He says that a book is like a spoon. Both spoons and books have been with us for ages and they perfectly serve their function. For now we have digital books, and, as Barbour says, they may eventually replace physical books. In the meantime let's enjoy our paper books, while waiting for a world of digital spoons.