THREE LIVES & COMPANY
(on 10th St.)
This must be one of those fabled Manhattan bookstores where obscure
Eastern Euopean writers are gods and the unknow young writer gets
transformed into the famous writer whom 98% of Americans have never
heard of.
The place is actually very nice. I don't have any pictures of the
interior so you will have to take my word for it. The whole place
couldn't be more than 1000 sq. feet. Wall-to-wall walnut bookshelves
with tasteful amber, indirect lights, like a rich-guy's private
library.
It is very comfortable. The staff (of two) glides around like peppy
librarians. People seems to know each other and spoke with intersting
accents. The poetry section was about half the size of the general
fiction section. Aside from travel books, not many non-fictions.
It was more of a scene than a store. People are milling around,
chatting, looking other people, or trying to be looked at. Books do get
sold, but I wonder if they get read. There are two British ex-pats
talking about Manchester while some frizzy hair crone with a tweedy
shawl interrogates the bookcovers for content.
I don't know. I kinda like it.
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