Books & Co., RIP

Some people mourn movie theaters that have closed down. Some, amusement parks by the sea. Some, those old fashioned drug stores with counter service. Some, race tracks.

I mourn the passing of bookstores. I lived in New York City for thirty-five years, and I saw many of them close. Some of these privately-owned bookstores were marvelous, too marvelous for words. When they closed, it was hard on the heart. Take Books & Co., which was located on Madison Avenue and 74th Street.
                                                                     

I wrote earlier about my sighting Allen Ginsberg emerging from that bookstore one day. The place was a two-story gem with rust-hued brick walls, one of which had an astonishing floor-to-ceiling selection that stretched on and on. Exploring that wall of titles, you felt like Howard Carter when he looked into Tutankhamun's tomb for the first time and was asked by those behind him if he saw anything. He replied, “Yes, wonderful things.” The place had a staff of seasoned book sommeliers who paired you with the right book for your particular taste of the moment. You could give them the barest direction, and they'd come up with something delicious for you. It was impossible not to make a discovery there.  I spent many happy hours in that store.
                                                                         

Books & Co. staff with Jeannette Watson, owner, center

In doing some research for this post, I discovered that a book has been written about the store and its owner, Bookstore: The Life and Times of Jeannette Watson and Books & Co.  Who would have thought? I remember seeing Jeannette Watson, slim, with bright blonde hair, always dressed immaculately, obviously proud and pleased of her bookstore, as well she should have been. She was a hands-on, caring owner who, for twenty years, offered New Yorkers the most exquisite experience of the mind. As far as I'm concerned, Jeannette Watson was a saint, if there ever was one.
                                                                               

Jeannette Watson (center) with Erica Jong

The store closed in 1997. Before it did, there were efforts to save it, but they were futile. It was learned later that Ms. Watson had yearly put about $100,000 of her own money into the bookstore to offset losses. The rent was too high, though. Remember the neighborhood, one of the toniest in the world. So, we lost it. But for twenty years, those of us fortunate enough to have lived in New York at the time, had something very special. And we knew it. 

Gone, but to anyone who spent time there, surely never forgotten.

The thing with feathers

The term "bird watcher" seems to imply someone overdressed in khaki fatigues, wearing a floppy hat, with an enormous pair of binoculars drooping around his or her neck, a notepad in hand, in which she or he, in ecstasy, scribbles down the latest sighting of the yellow-bellied sapsucker. Profession: librarian or accountant. I mean, really, who would spend a day looking up into trees for a possible furtive glimpse of a bird when they might be off mountain climbing, running rapids or fishing for marlin?
                                                                   

Scarlet Tanager

I would. When I lived in New York City, I loved the ten or so days when birds were migrating north (spring) and south (fall). You could go to Central Park and see up to thirty or even forty species of birds in a single day—twenty or so species of warblers alone. Birds, and most especially the songs of birds, make me feel optimistic. (Emily Dickinson used birds as a metaphor for hope.) When I was a boy growing in in southeastern Virginia, I would wake up to the sweet cadences of the song sparrow. Take a second to give yourself a jolt of beauty by listening to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology's recording of that bird's song. (Click on the second recording for the prettiest melody.)                             

You can ask the question, why do birds sing? I'm sure there's an answer. But how do you answer the question, why do birds sing so beautifully?
                                                                             

Prothonotary Warbler

I'm like any person who has ever watched a bird defy gravity. Not only that, but make a mockery of it, with sharp dips, pivots, banks and swoops and high soaring. For me, though, it's the hues of these birds that makes me crane my neck, searching high in the branches, for hours. To see, even for a few seconds, the deep oceanic blue of an Indigo Bunting or the fierce black and yellow of a Magnolia Warbler—go ahead, make my day. These photographs go some way to explaining the thrill, but you have to catch the glimpse in the wild, catch the appearance of the bird perched high in the tree—so much color in so small a form!—to get the full charge.
                                                                               

Indigo Bunting

                                                                             

Magnolia Warbler

I live in New Orleans now.  When I talk to people about Hurricane Katrina, time and time again I hear the same thing, "It was so quiet after the storm. There were no birds anywhere. You didn't hear a single bird singing." How, then, could you feel even the slightest bit of optimism? I can't even imagine it.

Herbie

"Every breath is a victory!" Herbie Weitz said when I asked him how he was doing.

Herbie was a bookbinder who worked in New York City. He called himself "bookbinder to the stars." I met him about ten years ago when I did a profile of him for a magazine

He was a raspy-voiced showman with long curly gray hair and a thick New York City accent. He seemed to have a single topic of conversation: himself. The subject was endlessly fascinating to him.  A 1987 New York Times article about his bookbinding business called him "energetic and flamboyant." To say the least. He would have fit in perfectly in a Damon Runyon story.

"I've bound books for all the stars," he told me. "Some," he said, with great seriousness, "whose names I'm not at liberty to disclose. I've been sworn to secrecy."

                                                                         

I can't do justice to Herbie's multi-colored stories about his past, many of which seemed invented on the spot. He once said to me, "I tell you without any false modesty, I am the best bookbinder in the world. Living." We took a ride on the F Train deep into Brooklyn to his studio not far from Coney Island. I heard about wives, girlfriends, gangsters--he'd once run a nightclub for some less than reputable characters--movie stars and politicians. "I know everybody," he said straightforwardly.  "And they know me."

And the books he bound? I saw many of them. They were splendid.

I came back home after that dizzy day and began to write the article. I found I had a few points I needed clarifying, so I called him up. I asked him how he was.

"Every breath is a victory!" he said. It sounded silly to me, a bit like a slogan.

The article was published. I was good to him in print. About a week later, he called me up to tell me how much he liked it. He was extremely effusive.  "I am enjoying the recognition," he said.  He also said, "If you ever have trouble with anyone, I can help you with that. I've got friends" I politely declined the offer.  A month or so later, I spoke to him again.  We lost touch after that.  I asked him how he was, and, true to form, I heard him say,

"Every breath is a victory!"

I'm Herbie's age now, if not older.

I pause.  I take a deep breath.  I let it out.  A victory.                                     

Top Hat and Tails

In 1982, New York City put on an event called "Night of 100 Stars." It was a benefit, and it was held at Radio City Music Hall. I was living in New York at the time.

Yes, there were 100 stars—and more.

A day or so before the event, I was walking west on 52nd street toward Madison Avenue when, about fifty yards ahead of me, I saw a slim figure of a man get out of a limousine.  He was frail-looking, moved a bit unsteadily.  He was walking toward a small hotel near Park Avenue. Someone was by his side helping him.

There were people who had been waiting for him, it appeared, a group of bystanders.  When they saw him emerge from the car, they began applauding.  Not shouting or screaming, applauding.  I realized he must be someone famous. 

He turned to them and smiled, waving a little shakily.  That smile.  I realized who it was.

It was Fred Astaire.

My first reaction was one of absolute, narcotic joy.  There he was! Astaire!  You couldn't mistake him.  He was smaller than I imagined.  He was never tall—only 5'8" in his dancing prime—but now, in old age, he surely had lost a few of those inches.  In 1982, he would have been eighty-three.

In my mind, of course, I—like everyone else—have the picture of this incredibly elegant dancer, the man who the great ballet dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov called "a genius," and—well, what can I tell you about Fred Astaire that you don’t already know?  And haven’t seen him do so wonderfully, particularly with Ginger Rogers, in his films again and again?

He looked, as I said, unsteady, as if he might fall.  He took his steps slowly.

Can you imagine?  Fred Astaire taking his steps slowly, cautiously?

And that's the point, isn't it?  It's unimaginable.  And unfair.  And wrong.  Yet, there it is.

But, like most of us, I'll always see him as the marvel he was.  And, as he sang so well, they can't take that away from me.