Where Books Are Dropping Like Flies

I have worked in the same suburb of The Queen City, my adopted home, for three years. In that time, I have seen businesses come and go, at what I assume to be a normal rate. Even in a healthy economic climate, the retail landscape remains judiciously in flux; it usually comes as no big surprise to see occasional doors close. Any sizable mall is testament enough to this. Yet, over the last 13 months, there has been a sad trend in this otherwise jumping little town. In approximately a week's time, its remaining book-store will be gone.
Waldenbooks, though never a favourite of mine, was the first casualty. It disappeared from the mall after the 2008 holidays. It was replaced by a generic clothing store. Borders, located across the street, followed a few months later. The building remains empty, as does the hull of the Old Navy next door. Half Price Books formed the third side of the triangle. Fortunately, it is not going under. Rather, it is moving to a presumably better location 10 minutes away, to the next town over.
These are, of course, all large conglomerate chain stores. There were no Indie book sellers to go under; which, to my mind, is an even sadder statement. Of the 3, Half-Price Books is my favourite. It is not a bad little haunt to wander around in: there is a large, eclectic, ever-revolving selection of books and music. It is green to the extent that most items are used. The staff is friendly and not over-bearing, with a respectful amount of knowledge. (I will never forget over-hearing, many years ago in a different city, a customer ask a baffled and blank Waldenbooks clerk if they carried anything by Kerouac.)
The closure of 3 book stores may seem trifling. Those cavernous boxes will eventually be replaced by something else equally ephemeral. The world goes on, unblinking. Yet, for bibliophiles, the loss can dig down to a deeper place: it is not merely a matter of being inconvenienced by a longer drive.
The dream--and occasional reality--of dashing around the corner to browse randomly through stacks of books is finally, painfully gone. I cannot, somewhat leisurely, but to the countdown of a ticking lunch clock, make my way through my preferred shelves: Performing Arts followed, inexorably, by Literature, Reference, and Poetry. (Any left-over time being spent running up to a variety of entirely unrelated shiny books, spied from the corner of a wandering eye, like a literate crow.)
For those of us in love with it, reading is a complete and complex experience. It does not begin when you open the cover and turn to the first page. Selecting a book--and the myriad reasons that you can be drawn to one book over another--is an integral part of the process. It is the thrill of an intellectual, yet enticingly physical hunt.
This is, however, not an entirely personal and selfish lamentation. Every community needs to be artistically and intellectually enriched by at least a few of the businesses in its district. It cannot all be fast food joints and gas stations, mini-marts and office supply stores. A town that cannot, for whatever litany of reasons, support a bookstore, art gallery, or coffee shop while cheap, throw-away chains thrive, is poorer as a result.