As I walked down the sidewalk of downtown Bethesda today, I noticed the darkened Barnes & Nobles. The behemoth keystone to the community of shops, restaurants, and cinemas fell. It startled me. It was a place I always stepped into to go and smell the roses. Now admittedly I’m more of an indie bookstore and used bookstore kind of guy, but I’ve held my share of meetings there, killed time in its coffee shop, and grazed along the stacks for years. I’ve found treasure there. I’ve researched trips and found the answers to literary puzzles there. I’ve left with bags full and hands empty. So, I feel like Bethesda lost more than a retailer. It lost some of its charm and nobility.
You may question an homage to a Barnes and Noble store, but the loss of any bookstore is a sad thing. The death of a community hub weakens us. Though a mega-book store and a retail monster, it was also an intimate series of nooks and cafe tables. It was a place of readings and art, and a a place well-suited for catching up, hugs, and a shared laugh.
Selfishly, I admit this branch held a particular place in my heart. They were the first outlet that ever invited me to exhibit my illustrations. It became a place for Choo Choo, A Composition for Shoemaker, and Mama Dragon. I remember the pride of being a young adult, hiding in the stacks to see people pause and smile at my work.
As an author now, I’d always wanted to have a reading there. Imagine a neighborhood crowd assembling to hear A Halo of Mushrooms, A Climbing Stock, or some future work. Imagine going out afterwards to celebrate the triumph. As I look through the darkened windows, I realize that will never happen.
We’ve lost too many bookstores in recent years… too many places that smell of pulp and crisp ideas.
A closed bookstore is the opposite of a blank page. It is also the opposite turning that final page in a book. Perhaps, these places are dinosaurs, but there is something about tracing a line of spines, flipping through an unexpected title, or finding a kindred soul reaching for a book you love or desire. Book stores, like writing itself, are not solitary things. They’re a collection of people, ideas, memories, histories, debates, laughs, tears, and creased pages.
Barnes and Noble opened its Bethesda branch in 1997. That means that brick and mortar joint was only one year away from legally toasting itself. It fell just short, but it still served a served a community for a generation. For that, it deserves a gold watch or at least a wistful nod and a momentary pause to read the quotes it engraved onto its stonework. Goodbye B&N. Thanks for the good reads.
Andrew Hiller
