Guest Post: On the Closing of Borders Books

When I heard about Borders Books closing, I felt sad. Although I am an advocate for independent bookstores, the closing of any bookstores, and especially so many throughout the country, is a huge loss. There is also the Ann Arbor connection; as a former resident of the Ann Arbor area, I feel a sentimental stake in Borders. But I haven't lived in Michigan for many years, so I asked my friend Mary, who has lived in Ann Arbor most of her adult life, to write a guest post about the closing of Borders, and she kindly agreed. (Mary is the one who suggested my starting this blog back in January 2010, and who generously contributed other guest posts on 3/7/11 and 4/15/11.) Her post is below.

Mary's guest post:

Borders is closing, and it makes me sad. It's true that for a long time it has not been the charming, stimulating, delightfully literary haven it was when I first shopped there. I moved to Ann Arbor in 1973, and at that time there was a tiny Borders, overflowing with used books, with artsy posters covering the walls. A couple of years later it was moved across State Street, into a big rambling space, with lots of dark wood shelves, nooks and crannies, and a steep staircase leading to a mezzanine filled with many more books, as well as some of those artsy posters. Here and there were built-in wooden benches -- the first time I had encountered seating in a bookstore.

Tom Borders, one of two brothers who started the store, created a computerized inventory system which was innovative at the time. Ironic, considering the computer was eventually the downfall of the chain now called Borders. But that is now. Then was a different story.

Borders, then, was a place to go and browse, and read, and buy, but also to learn things. Its inventory was not stocked with a hundred copies of every best seller, but rather with seemingly every book on every subject imaginable. And if you couldn't find what you wanted, there was always someone there who would help you, and probably teach you something too. There were employees who were experts in each subject area, but every employee was well-read and well-trained. Apparently there was a daunting test that prospective employees had to pass, covering all manner of literary topics. Many of the employees had advanced degrees, and the longtime manager there was so knowledgeable that he was revered in a town full of scholars.

I stopped by one of Borders' "superstores" this evening (10% off everything -- the liquidation has begun). It is a lot different than the original store. There are toys, CDs, DVDs, and a huge section of cards and novelty items. There are no experts waiting to teach me things. The Borders I remember has been gone for a long time. But as I browsed the store one last time, I felt sad to lose even this version. I miss my hometown bookstore.

"The John Cheever Audio Collection"

Planning for a recent car trip, I was browsing in my beautiful local library for a book-on-CD to accompany me on the trip. “The John Cheever Audio Collection” (Recorded Books, 2003) caught my eye. I pondered. Did I want to spend six and a half hours in Cheeverland? I have read many of Cheever’s stories, and liked them. I looked forward to spending those 6.5 hours in New York and its upscale commuter suburbs, the locales that Cheever wrote so precisely and evocatively -- and sometimes so painfully and depressingly -- about. His observations are always so razor sharp, so spot-on. His characters are both predictable and unexpected. Oh, and alcohol is a constant presence, reminding us of what a big part alcohol played in the affluent suburbs of the 1950s and 1960s, for both social and self-medicating purposes, and evoking a whole way of life during that time period. All in all, I thought, yes, I would like to spend that time with the Cheever stories. So I did. And I am glad I did. The selections include some of Cheever’s classic, best-known stories, such as “The Enormous Radio,” “The Five-Forty-Eight,” “O City of Broken Dreams,” and probably most famous of all, “The Swimmer.” Greatly enhancing the pleasure of listening to these stories is the fact that they are read by Meryl Streep, Edward Herrmann, Blythe Danner, George Plimpton, Peter Gallagher, and the author himself. What a treat to listen to these fine readers read these wonderful stories!

Always Reading, Always Writing

I was recently thinking about what a huge proportion of my day is filled with reading and writing. I read newspapers, books for work and pleasure, magazines, journals, letters, documents, email, Facebook, other online websites and blogs, memos, signs, bulletin boards, and more. I write letters, postcards, emails, syllabi, lesson plans, tests and exercises, lectures, conference proposals and papers, articles, book chapters, books, manuscript reviews, tenure and promotion reviews, notes for committee work, my ubiquitous to-do lists, grocery lists, posts for this blog, and much more. I am thinking about the sheer amount of time I spend with words. I am sure this is true for many of you as well. It is hard to remember that for much of history, people spent little or no time on reading and writing, and even now, there are people all over the world, including in the United States, who cannot or do not read and write, or do so only very minimally. I don’t say that spending as much time as I do on words is necessarily a good thing, but it is a major fact in my life and work, and a very large part of who I am.

"The Arrivals," by Meg Mitchell Moore

I have always loved stories that follow the classic Jane Austen pattern of gathering a few characters into a small place and then letting them interact. “The Arrivals” (Little, Brown, 2011), by Meg Mitchell Moore, does this, with an intriguing twist: Ginny and William’s three adult children all come home suddenly one summer, one by one, bringing their various family members, troubles and issues with them. Suddenly the house is full to the brim, noisy, messy, mostly loving but sometimes tense and difficult. Lillian brings her two young children, leaving her briefly unfaithful husband Tom behind, and is trying to decide if her marriage is over. Stephen and his wife Jane’s planned two-day visit turns into several weeks when pregnant Jane is put on emergency bed rest. And Rachel, who has just broken up with her boyfriend and gotten tired of her seemingly dead-end job, and is broke, drags herself home to recuperate. The events of the novel are both mildly dramatic and soothingly familiar -- very much like most people’s lives, most of the time. All the family dynamics come into play, with some mild snippiness and thoughtless behavior and words, but because everyone is basically nice, and basically loving, there isn’t too much drama or trauma to be had on this account. There are a couple of briefly scary scenes, but all is resolved quite quickly. Some readers might find the book a bit lacking in plot, but not I. To me, the interactions among the family members and the few outside characters allowed into the story are amply interesting. Although the initial setup is somewhat artificial (but clever!), the characters and their interactions seem quite realistic. Well, maybe Ginny and William are a bit too saintly, but they love their children and want to help them, even when they sometimes guiltily wonder how long they are all going to stay; after all, the pleasures of cooking and cleaning and doing laundry for, and worrying about, six extra people wear thin quickly. I won't give away the ending, but I will give a little hint: no, don't worry, they don't stay in the family nest forever.

"The End of Everything," by Megan Abbott

I can’t remember where I read the positive review of “The End of Everything” (Little Brown, 2011), by Megan Abbott, that led me to borrow it from the library and read it, but now I wish I hadn’t. The book is full of suspense, and kept me reading it all in one fell swoop, taking up my Sunday morning, despite my increasing distaste for the book. It reminds me of many bestselling suspense novels, but perhaps one or two levels up literarily. It is also a sort of domestic drama; otherwise I wouldn’t usually have picked up a suspense novel. The story is told through the eyes of a 13-year-old girl, Lizzie, and focuses on the disappearance of her best friend, Evie, who lives next door; the two girls have been inseparable since early childhood. Evie’s disappearance leads Lizzie into speculations, investigations, and newfound knowledge, forever taking away her innocence. Much is revealed about illicit desire, both adult and adolescent, some overt and some hidden, but with some doubt about exactly where the boundaries lie. Despite reading the novel without stopping, I was put off by two things. One was a kind of tic in the writing: the too-frequent use of such pumping-up-the-suspense, talky phrases as “And then I knew…”, “I knew there was something, if I could only figure it out…”, “And then everything changed,” “I knew things would never be the same again…”, etc. (In some cases, I am paraphrasing, but you get the idea….) The other, more important point was that the difficult topic of an adult male character’s obsession with a young adolescent girl (which is also echoed in another adult male character’s less overtly but still disturbingly inappropriate interactions with young girls in his sphere) is treated in a too-breathless, too-fascinated, somewhat exploitative way; reading this novel made me feel, finally, a bit soiled.

"Daughters of the Revolution," by Carolyn Cooke

On 7/14/11 I wrote of how much I liked Carolyn Cooke’s collection of short stories, “The Bostons.” Now I have read her new book, a novel, “Daughters of the Revolution” (Knopf, 2011), which I also liked very much, although it took me a little while to warm up to it. At first it almost seemed that -- despite the clear label of “novel” -- this book would be a set of interrelated stories. But the stories gradually come together in a more novel-like way. All the stories are connected somehow to the prestigious Goode School, in New England, and to its aging and change-resistant headmaster, Goddard Byrd, known to all as “God.” The school is for boys only, but through a clerical error, an African-American girl, Carole, is accepted, and then more girls are accepted, as the tide of history cannot be resisted. These two characters, as well as the widow of an alum of the school -- known as Mei-Mei -- and her daughter -- EV -- are the main characters in this novel. The stories are told in a leisurely yet economical way, focusing on a few key episodes over the period of 1963-2005. Readers may wonder about the significance of the title. It is suitably ambiguous, and could refer both to the upstanding, conservative nature of the school and its supporters, as the organization Daughters of the Revolution (not actually mentioned in the novel) represents, and -- especially -- to the new young women who have made the school coeducational. There is also a 1968 scene from the early days of the (second wave) women’s movement, in which “God” is caught up in, and slightly injured in, a demonstration for women’s rights. This event disorients and distresses him, and becomes a crucial episode in his life. The uses of the names “Goode” for the school and “God” for its head are certainly significant and ironic, and sometimes create amusing but also disturbing situations. The novel gradually reveals a few surprises, including a fairly big one near the end, one that is seemingly casually dropped into the story. It has to do with a main character's identity, and it connects with another revelation about a friendship and a tragic event, one that shows the deep class divide that the school papers over but cannot completely conceal. Now that I have read both “The Bostons” and “Daughters of the Revolution,” Carolyn Cooke is definitely on my list of authors whose new books I will always look out for, find, and read. I just hope Cooke will not wait another ten years, as she did between the above two books, to write and publish another book.

On the Founding of The Feminist Press

I have occasionally written about my interest in feminist literature, both fiction and nonfiction. An important early publisher of such fiction was and is The Feminist Press. The current (July/August 2011) issue of The Women’s Review of Books (a wonderful periodical which I have read for many, many years, and which I wrote about here on 2/17/10) has a very interesting essay by Florence Howe, a co-founder of the Feminist Press, about its founding and early years. The essay is excerpted from Howe's memoir, “A Life in Motion.” The Press began informally in 1970, organized by a sort of collective of enthusiastic women who did all the fundraising (they initially raised $100, which was a lot more back then than it is now!) and the work of deciding what to publish, editing, working with a printer, finding artists to illustrate books, and so on. No one in the group had expertise in or experience in publishing, but they moved forward fueled by their passion for making more literary works by women widely available. They started with a children’s book and with a series of biographies of influential women; the first subject featured in the series was Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Then the writer Tillie Olsen recommended that the Press publish Rebecca Harding Davis’ 1861 novella, “Life in the Iron Mills,” which up to that point had only been published serially in The Atlantic. Howe read it through, weeping the whole time, and agreed to publish it; it became and still is one of the Press’ bestselling books. The Press’ second reprint of a novel lost in time after its initial publication in 1891 was Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wall-Paper,” which immediately became, and is still, a feminist classic. (I have taught both of these novels several times.) In the early years, no book sold for more than $1.50. The Feminist Press went from that initial $100 investment in 1970 to a $500,000 budget ten years later and continued to grow and become more established year by year. I have read many of its volumes, and am most grateful to the Press for its work in finding both new books to publish and those seemingly lost to history to republish for a modern audience. I have twice had the good fortune to hear Florence Howe speak. Once many years ago she came to my university with some other editors from the Feminist Press and spoke about their work. Another time she was in the audience at a session at a conference on feminism and composition, and actively joined in the discussion. I truly admire her and her colleagues and the groundbreaking work they have done.