If I had a dollar every time I have made my poor boyfriend wander through bookstores with me, we would probably be able to take a decent vacation. Nothing compares to the length of his groan whenever I casually suggest going into Barnes and Noble. I have literally spent close to a third of my life scanning the aisles and pouring over the ?new and recommended?, ?new fiction?, ?new non-fiction?, and ?beach reads? tables at Barnes and Noble. Everyone around me is also silently going through the tables, perusing whatever new Kurt Vonnegut book has been published from beyond the grave. When you live in New York City, finding peace and quiet is difficult to come by, especially when you?re idly killing time. Just last week I had about an hour to kill before I went to work, and I literally sat on the floor of the Union Square Barnes and Noble and read the first chapter of Sloane Crossley?s new collection of essays entitled How Did You Get This Number. It was one of the most glorious hours of my week. Nobody bothers you unless you ask them for help, and everyone minds their own business. It reminds me of what a library is supposed to be like, as opposed to its modern day purpose, which is to house the homeless during the day. I guess everyone needs their own personal time with literature, I just prefer to do mine on the comfy carpeting of the Barnes and Noble in Union Square, where everyone is happy and helpful, and the answer to the secret of life seems just within reach of the next Malcolm Gladwell book.
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