As part of our efforts in this shut-in, which, by the way, has not really altered our way of life at all, we are reading a lot.  I have finished three volumes of the four-volume set, “A History of the English Speaking People,” by one of my heroes, Sir Winston Churchill, a Nobel Prize in Literature winner, by the way.  A riveting read if you love history and good writing. Absolutely extraordinary, when you know that the man turned out over fifty books, while serving as a member of Parliament and Prime Minister, through some of Britain’s most difficult times, while starting his day with white wine, in bed, then scotch, gin, and a variety of aperitifs throughout the day, along with probably ten cigars.  A hero indeed.

If that isn’t enough, we have also been engaged in watching some evening TV, on our favorite progressive channel, which features contributors reporting and offering cogent observations remotely from their homes, in which are featured a variety of bookshelves in the background.  It has been fun to try and see the titles on the shelves.  Readers are thinkers.  It has all made me think more about books and bookstores.  I am going to tell you a bit about my favorite bookstore in the world.

City Lights Books, in San Francisco, has existed since 1953.  Started by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, it published the early works of Allen Ginsberg, Kenneth Rexroth, Gregory Corso, and Denise Levertov.  It is situated on the edge of Chinatown and North Beach, just across Columbus Avenue from Vesuvio Cafe, a bar famous for catering to the Beat Generation of the 50s.  It is a cramped, packed with books place, with a lower level that you can never get through on a single visit.  Whatever book you are seeking you can find at City Lights.  When I lived in North Beach briefly in the early 90s I went there at least twice a week, just to browse, and spent hours every time.  Most mornings of the week I would make my way down Union Street to Malvino’s, a coffeeshop on Washington Square, where I would have a Cappuccino and croissant, and read the Chronicle.  Besides reading the daily column of Herb Caen, who wrote for the paper for almost sixty years, (another story), the draw was to wait and watch for Ferlinghetti himself to come down Telegraph Hill, where he lived, to go to City Lights.  I actually saw him a few times, an old man even then, (he’s still alive, at 101), with a determined gait.  I sometimes followed down to the bookstore, but I never saw him there. Maybe he ducked into the back of the store, or had a seat at Vesuvio, or made a before-hours visit to Enrico’s, a wonderful restaurant nearby on Broadway, for some Calamari, where, for a brief time, I had an un-paid job stripping mint leaves for their equally famous Mojitos.

Anyway, the bookstore is the story, and if you are ever in San Francisco, you have to indulge.  Old-fashion, independent bookstores are where it’s at.  Powell’s in Portland is also a great one, but it’s just too big.  Find one locally, if you can, and find something to read.