![]() The draftiest wall was floor to ceiling with books, shelved on planks and cinderblocks. I nailed them up along each wall, like you would in a drafty castle that had fallen intro disrepair when your mad uncle died. When the duplex I was renting got too cold one winter, the woman at the Salvation Army in town gave me busted electric blankets that no one else wanted. At the time, my money was split among rent, books, and, for a reason that escapes me now, mail-order cigars. My girlfriend (now wife) and I took poet Henry Taylor there when he visited the university and asked us to help his search for unusual dictionaries. The bookstore, suitably dark and musty with a wonderful loft that hid cheap Penguin paperbacks, opened in 1988 just off Pittsburg’s main drag, Highway 69. ![]() A few decades back, I was in Kansas, researching the works of Luigi Pirandello and Eugène Ionesco in a cavernous bookstore I’d eventually be banned from. ![]()
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