Powell’s City of Books is one of my through lines. More than libraries, it’s always been Powell’s. Living near it, as we do in Northwest Portland, must be what people who live close to the Smithsonian or the New York Public Library feel like. Richer by proximity.
My dad used to say Powell’s was open on Christmas Eve and Christmas for the “poor bastards” who had nowhere else to go. The hours changed a long time ago, which is good for staff but sad for the loners.
The last book I purchased at Powell’s was “A Spy Among Friends” by Ben Macintyre for $10.98. I had just streamed a series based on the book and had to take another, slower lap around the fascinating story of British double agent Kim Philby. I hunted it down, got my hands on it and felt that familiar Powell’s rush as I breathed in the smell of dust and paper.
News of the layoffs of 31 employees at Powell’s makes me anxious for the staff and for the rest of us. There are many examples of local institutions teetering, like Higgins Restaurant and Next Adventure. But if Powell’s folds, we might actually be well and truly done for.
I’m not as interested in the economics of what’s happening at Powell’s (Amazon, e-books, the rising cost of health care) as much as the cultural, personal reasons that could be at play. I used to go to Powell’s and page an employee who ran the small press department. Calling Kevin Sampsell to the Blue Room. If he was there, he’d meet me and I’d say, “What’s good? I need something to read.” His tastes ran different than mine, but I loved seeing what he came up with. I don’t talk to anyone at Powell’s anymore, but he’s still there in charge of the small press section and hosting most of the author events.
When I go to Powell’s, I overhear tourists ask unintentionally funny things like, “What is this place, a bookstore?’’ They don’t seem to be buying much, but they’re taking photos to post. Plants and candles—not books—were for sale on tables in the Home and Garden room over the summer. So maybe the tourist’s question isn’t so dumb, and I’m just a condescending local.
When I worked at the Powell’s on Hawthorne after college, it felt at the time like a fresh take on what a bookstore could look and feel like, with its poured concrete floors and clean lines. Many books on art and architecture. It connected to Powell’s Books for Cooks, which then led to City Market. My coworkers and I lived on their Parmesan breadsticks. Many years later, Powell’s on Hawthorne is pretty run down, and not in a pleasing, louche sort of way.
Walking by Powell’s downtown, I glance at the red and black Burnside marquee most days and calendar myself to go to a reading. “Born to read, forced to work” is a sticker I saw that pretty much says it all when planning stuff for my spare time.
Recently, I read an article about the Louvre jewelry heist in which experienced thieves were asked to hypothesize about the crime and speculate whether they thought it was an inside job. One of the ex-cons was Joan Hannington, author of “Joan, How I Became Britian’s Most Notorious Diamond Thief.” Her method was to swallow the diamonds she nicked. I sprinted to Powell’s to find the book but came up empty.
Next I contacted Patrick Leonard, who runs Postcard Bookshop, a tiny travel-themed place about the size of a postage stamp with titles organized by geographic area. He ordered it. It was done. It was personable. So maybe he’s my next supplier, and like other readers, I’ve found a different way to score books.
This is a roundabout way to get to the point. The Portland Book Festival is Saturday, Nov. 8, and will take place on 10 stages in six venues. The annual event is produced by Literary Arts , which recently bought a building on 716 SE Grand Ave. and moved its offices from downtown. About a year ago, Literary Arts opened a bookstore and cafe there.
The family of Ursula K. Le Guin has donated her old house in Northwest Portland to turn it into the Ursula K. Le Guin Writer’s Residency. From its second floor she wrote “The Books at Earthsea,” ‘‘The Disposessed” and "The Left Hand of Darkness. “
Right across from Literary Arts’ new home is Mother Foucault’s Bookshop, an acutely cool place with a small gas fireplace, conversation nooks and books stacked every which way. Here, the intellectually curious can immerse themselves in books on philosophy, poetry and literature.
Mercifully, no cellphone usage is allowed.
I lived in NW for 40 years and now live in Charleston, SC. I had countless dealings with Powells every year. And I still order books from there sent to me in Charleston.
Carpe Libre.
Chuck Duffy