Judging a Book By Its Lover

by Lauren Leto

  The Tortured Artist

  Story: You have a passion for denying yourself a steady job and a resolve to keep posting YouTube videos until you get a viral hit (but so far views haven’t tipped past the double digits).

  Books: Charles Bukowski (heavily read and marked up), Milan Kundera (read heavier in the areas where the protagonist describes his apathy toward commitment), Nietzsche (attempted, abandoned).

  Objects: Bottle of Maker’s Mark strategically propping up the Bukowski, some change, rolling papers.

  Bookshelf: Windowsill just within reach of your mattress on the ground.

  Sorority Girl

  Story: You are marked by an inability to recognize yourself as a caricature of what the media thinks twenty-year-old girls act and think like.

  Books: Chelsea Handler (any book by her, bought at an airport bookstore), Eat, Pray, Love (but you’ve never heard of Committed), Jack Kerouac (a memento from high school days).

  Objects: Pendant with Greek letters; oversized, painted martini glasses; pink frame with picture of four or more overly made-up women; Andy Warhol poster of Marilyn Monroe.

  Bookshelf: The cubby in the upper part of your desk, built into the bunk at your sorority house.

  Fraternity Guy

  Story: Books aren’t your main concern—in fact they don’t even rank in the top one hundred things you care about—but it’s college and your mother bought you a shelf on a parent’s-weekend shopping spree, so why not?

  Books: Tucker Max (received at your high school graduation party; you have an involuntary memory as to where specific stories are located in the book), The Bachelor’s Guide to Survival (again, a gift from your high school graduation), Between a Rock and a Hard Place (unread).

  Objects: Empty beer can, girl’s necklace, speakers.

  Bookshelf: Ikea-brand that your parents helped you put together; will be discarded or simply left in place instead of taken home after graduation.

  Quirky Hipster

  Story: You’ve run the gamut from Gabriel García Márquez to Miranda July. It is your sense of adventure that drives you to find the next most obscure author to champion. Either that or your pretentiousness.

  Books: Che Guevara biography (purchased from independent bookstore), Susan Orlean’s The Orchid Thief, copies of The Paris Review (lined up just right), graphic novel (unread gift from ex-boyfriend).

  Objects: Ceramic owl statue, cardboard cutout of a unicorn, vintage typewriter.

  Bookshelf: Shelves ordered from Etsy and placed with loving precision on your bedroom wall.

  Brash Entrepreneur

  Story: You read all the business books and take notes so you can be sure to apply their priceless lessons with your team. You don’t appreciate the irony of taking up your time to read books revolving around the philosophy of “get things done by sitting around and reading about how to plan to get it done.”

  Books: Tim Ferriss’s 4-Hour Workweek and 4-Hour Body; The Starfish and the Spider; The Checklist Manifesto.

  Objects: Kitschy piggy bank, keep calm and carry on poster, clock, buckyballs.

  Bookshelf: Books are placed on your minimalist-style glass desk.

  Old-Money Prep

  Story: Contemporary literature is of no interest to a man or woman who defines themselves by their history.

  Books: Stuff White People Like (ironically), Moby-Dick, Ayn Rand, Mrs. Dalloway.

  Objects: Wooden frame with dated family photo, wooden sailboat.

  Bookshelf: Heavy wood, antique—like at an upstate cabin.

  Brooding Academic

  Story: Initially unable to let go of graduate school, you are transitioning from your tortured-artist phase by gradually acquiring a taste in novels with stronger roots in philosophy, since they’re so much fun to debate with your friends.

  Books: Fyodor Dostoyevsky, William Gaddis, The Master and Margarita.

  Objects: Legal pad with outline for a screenplay hidden under the first two pages.

  Bookshelf: Doesn’t matter, as long as it can hold all the books you own and show them off with intimidating effect.

  Soccer Mom

  Story: You are too busy to mentally invest yourself in a substantial novel but enjoy the often sedative effects of the perfunctory O, The Oprah Magazine book of the month.

  Books: Biography (whatever presidential autobiography has been released recently), Jodi Picoult, Jennifer Weiner.

  Objects: Pottery, photos of children, other assorted trinkets and artifacts from the suburbs.

  Bookshelf: A section of the entertainment system in your living room.

  Dorky Dad

  Story: Once a fraternity brother or drummer in a garage band, now you’re thinking about mortgage payments and kids’ soccer games instead of hitting on chicks or expressing your inner self.

  Books: John Grisham, the Da Vinci Code series, David Baldacci (but you only read fiction on your annual Easter trip to Florida), tennis and/or golf instruction books, a couple old college textbooks.

  Objects: Bulky address book, decorative mug from Father’s Day, leather sofa nearby.

  Bookshelf: A large bookshelf made with the best wood—the highest-quality option in the catalog. Located in your study.

  That Certain Bookstore Smell

  WALKING INTO A GREAT bookstore elicits a powerful emotion. You’re flanked floor-to-ceiling by the spines of books, surrounded by tables decked out with new releases; everywhere your eye lands you’re suddenly aware of the pages and pages of histories, stories—sheer information—and the impossibility of ever getting to read it all. Front tables display every element of great, carefully curated bookstores you can ask for: the handwritten notes about books chosen by such and such employee and a one-or-two-line description; artful covers that could double as wall art; annoying movie-version covers of greats. You can while away your time indefinitely in a bookstore. For most of us, the ability to wander the aisles without a specific purpose is priceless. And there is nothing better than a bookstore with a courteous staff who knows when to help you and when to leave you alone.

  After dropping out of law school I spent a year trying (unsuccessfully) to write my first novel and (a bit more successfully) running a humor blog. To say a lot of that year was also spent without a solid daily agenda would be an understatement. Every day I’d arrive at a small office that I rented and I’d clack away at my laptop keys until I hit a block. Luckily, across the street lived a Borders bookstore, so I’d jet over there to procrastinate and try to invigorate my writing by osmosis from the immortals. I was addicted to that store. To those of you who scoff at the likes of Barnes & Noble and (the lately demised) Borders, what are called the big-box chains—spread out all across our country—I make no excuses for my Borders addiction; I lived in a small town, and that was the only store available to me. But, given the choice, I’ll take the independent over the chain on principle.

  You’ve Got Mail, the Nora Ephron–scripted flick starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, was always confusing to me. In it, Tom Hanks plays a big-shot executive of a branch of discount bookstores and Meg Ryan plays the owner of a small, independent children’s bookstore. Their paths inevitably intersect as their businesses go head-to-head. Eventually, Ryan’s small store goes under and the discount store flourishes. For some reason, Ryan falls in love with Hanks afterward. I’m not going to start in on the holes in a Nora Ephron plot, but I’ve always been puzzled by the fact that this romantic comedy lets the big guy win. Hanks’s slick stores are portrayed with a kind of superiority, as if the film is embracing them as the obvious choice over Meg Ryan’s devoted little enterprise. Hanks’s character compares the books in his store to cans of olive oil. Every time I see the movie, I want to go visit my closest independent bookseller and buy out the front table. You’ll rarely meet a better-read or more passionate person than your local indie bookseller. There is nothing greater than a highly curated bookstore. There’s something essential about the scene—a mess of a table full of phenomenal titles a
nd no distractions in the checkout line other than more rows of books. You don’t get that at a Barnes & Noble. They’re hardwired to hawk movie tie-in editions and the latest bestseller by Dr. Oz.

  But I’ll admit I’m no purist, and I’m not innocent. Tom Hanks’s character predicts he’ll win over the neighborhood because his store’s “books are cheap and [the store has] cappuccino.” Sometimes we all fall victim to convenience. If I need to pick up a tchotchke for someone’s birthday, maybe I’ll grab a coffee as well. And while I’m at it, why not grab the latest Neal Stephenson? Before you know it you’re breezing by the Michael Crichton stepladder on your way up the fifth-floor escalators of your Barnes & Noble megaplex.

  Recently, the Borders in my old neighborhood closed. I’d since moved away to New York City but the feeling that I’d lost the place where I went to lose my time in my hometown during adolescence hit me harder than I expected. It was the only bookstore, independent or otherwise, in my city. I’d met a boyfriend there, discovered Dostoyevsky there, spent money I didn’t have there on the two-for-the-price-of-one tables. I realized early on that the Bantam mass-market paperbacks were reliably the cheapest editions of the classics, with their tissue paper and small print. I set up my study groups in their café, my business partner and I discussed how to create a website in their humor section, I bought my Mother’s and Father’s Day gifts there, I bought my nonreader girlfriends Why Men Love Bitches for all their birthdays. I bought my reader friends Kerouac, Vonnegut, Maugham. I attended the book signing of a young girl who had self-published a novel at the age of twelve. I was camped out in the children’s book section when I received an e-mail from a friend telling me Salinger had died.

  People often talk of the smell of bookstores, a concentrated fragrance of paper and bindings. But there’s more to it than a certain smell; there’s a humming excitement in the air that, if you think about it, seems out of place for a room filled with objects that cannot twirl, bleat, or shine. Bookstores contain the residue of thousands of people who went in there to find an experience, a narrative that guided them to a new place or reinforced what they were doing. Whether you find yourself in Meg Ryan’s or Tom Hanks’s store, there’s always a quiet corner and a new story to find.

  Ten Rules for Bookstore Hookups

  “ARE YOU LAUREN?” SAYS the guy kneeling in front of the Eastern philosophy section, having just plucked a book off the shelf as he gets to his feet. It’s the I Ching, now resting, spine cracked, in his hands. I consider saying no. He’s cute but I’ve been down the Eastern-philosophy-boy path before and I have no intention of returning. To make matters worse, I’m holding a Thomas Friedman book. “Lauren…Leto?”

  Oh shit, he knows me, I think. “Hi! Yes.” I own up to my identity. It turns out he’s a coworker of one of my friends.

  We get into a discussion about why we’re there and what we’re buying. I explain that I’m not a Thomas Friedman fanatic but was interested enough in The World Is Flat to take a peek. He explains that he doesn’t have an interest in Eastern philosophy but there’s a conductor he’s been listening to quite a bit who’s a real I Ching devotee, so he thought he’d check it out. I exhale a bit.

  We dated for years after that first meeting. So, I feel I can propose these ten rules for bookstore pickups with a measure of authority.

  First and most importantly: it’s all about the books. The best thing about meeting someone in a bookstore is that they are surrounded by things to talk about and are possibly holding the very nugget that you can use to weasel your way into their heart.

  Admitting ignorance of any given author or book is no huge strike against you, but at least have a solid exit strategy for any talk that’s over your head. If you’re stuck, feigning an obsession with another, more obscure author is usually the best way to go. “No, I’ve never really been able to get into Bellow—when all my friends were reading him I was pretty preoccupied with Bernhard.”

  Explain away an otherwise embarrassing book in hand by saying it’s a gift or required reading for a book club.

  Having a great conversation? Go with it. Try to stroll around the aisles, pointing out your favorites or new releases you’re anxious to get to. Going really well? Transition into the bookstore’s coffee shop or one nearby (there’s always one nearby). Most of the time that’s just a matter of a few steps through the magazine aisle. Can’t get any easier than that.

  For a laugh check out the self-help section for love. If for some reason they don’t think the deluge of information on how to snag a mate is funny, run.

  There’s an endless amount of things to talk about while browsing the store: their favorite books in high school, why beautiful book covers entice us so much, how The Virgin Suicides is the most often shoplifted book in America, anecdotes like how Alain de Botton spent a week in Heathrow as the self-proclaimed “writer in residence” and got a book deal out of it (he turned the experience into A Week at the Airport, in case you were wondering). See how many interesting turns the conversation can take from that?

  It’s easy to begin a conversation. Sidle up to the guy or girl dismantling the Russian lit section. “What’re you looking for?” (make sure it’s obvious you’re not an employee). Smile. He says, “The Master and Margarita.” You respond, “My friend was just telling me about that book! They said it was great.” Don’t get in over your head. Inside a bookstore is not the place to go toe-to-toe with a reader by bluffing.

  People reveal a lot about themselves just through their browsing behavior. We’re creatures of habit and chances are high if someone is sitting in the history section, they probably would love whatever historical biography you most recently read—you don’t have to reach far. Start the conversation by suggesting a good book along the lines of the one they’re already holding. Best-case scenario, they’ve already read it. There could be hours of conversation material there, if you want it. Point is, it’s low-hanging fruit. It’s like people are wearing signs announcing what their passions are.

  Sometimes a long checkout line is best for the challenge. Chances are less likely you’ll be able to solidify a real connection with someone in the ten minutes or less it takes to move through the line, but hey, chemistry takes only a split second to establish, so try it out.

  Try to get through the whole experience without asking the cute guy or girl where they work or live. The best part about picking someone up in a bookstore is that you don’t need to know anything about their personal life in order to have an amazing conversation.

  Bring up the rise of e-readers. Do they own one? Do they like it? Talk about your favorite bookstore in whatever city and how you couldn’t imagine the store not existing anymore. Lament the fact that in a world without bookstores, you would never have met.

  Rules for Public Reading

  THEY’RE BEAUTIFUL THINGS, tangible books. The iPad, Nook, and Kindle are swiftly taking away our ability to instantly judge people by their choice of reading material in public places, but for a little while longer, you’ll be able to strike up a conversation with a stranger, or silently mock them, as you notice them cracking open a wonderfully bulky copy of I Am Charlotte Simmons. In the age of print, you didn’t think twice about lugging a book around on your quotidian errands—not as a measured public display, but simply as a fact of daily life. A burden assumed willingly so you have something to do while you wait at the doctor’s, something to preoccupy you while waiting for a friend at a restaurant, or in case you have a few free minutes to get back to the chapters you tore yourself away from to leave for work.

  There are times when you can’t deny that your choice of one book over another on your way out the door has something to do with your destination. A voice in your ear tells you to forgo Angela’s Ashes—you don’t want to have tears streaming down your face in the waiting room unless you want to attract concerned looks from nearby patients. Off for a drink? Brandishing House of Holes at a bar may be sending the wrong (or right) message, if you’re entertaining any
hopes of being picked up.

  Here are some tips for your reading venue of choice, when what title you’re holding in your hands is public information.

  Universal Guidelines, for Waiting Rooms, Subways, and Everything in Between

  Don’t be awful. There’s nothing cute about reading Twilight in public. Save that for nights alone, when you realize you’ve been single for far too long and there’s no end in sight. Don’t exaggerate emotions and never laugh out loud while reading. Furrowed brows or the hint of a smile are sometimes acceptable, but a beaming mug is creepy. Why? You are not in the privacy of your living room, and you should be capable of harnessing some powers of self-control.

  Train or Subway

  Big-city living offers paradoxically comforting and anxiety-inducing public transportation. Always best to get through the commute with a book in hand. Sure, you can go stereotypical with a novel by a liberal author who received a favorable review in the Times—and who is therefore also likely a white man. To fit in, Let the Great World Spin or anything by Gary Shteyngart (but God help you if you’re trying to get through The Russian Debutante’s Handbook). But stereotypes need not be adhered to so stringently. Read what you love; you don’t want to get stuck underground with a bad book.

  Park

  People will think you’re a psycho if you read William Gaddis in the park. Your reading material can be serious, but it should also be brief. Camus’s The Stranger or Eugenides’s The Virgin Suicides, for example. Or a paperback small enough to hold with one hand but whose subject matter and title are congruent with your demeanor as you sit squinting in the sun, peering into the book as if deciphering a message from outer space.