The end of an era

As if it's not bad enough that nearly a third of the pubs I remember from my Oxford student days are now lost to us, I learned on my recent trip back there that all of the city's secondhand bookshops have closed, or are about to very shortly (well, all except the secondhand department of the venerable University bookshop, Blackwell's, and one or two charity shops).

The global recession has hit publishing particularly hard, it seems (god damn, the scourge is hitting America too); but I gather the pressure on secondhand bookstores has been gathering for some years now. Many people, it seems, prefer to buy their books online these days. I really don't understand that. I mean, I can just about see the convenience argument for buying new books from Amazon, because with that kind of purchase you probably already know what you want. Random browsing is key to the secondhand bookbuying experience, however. When I go into a secondhand bookshop, I have no idea what I'm going to come out with - but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to come out empty-handed. The pleasure lies in ranging the shelves for an hour or two, searching for hidden, unguessed-at, unknowable delights. Oh, the modern world! We foolishly venerate the false idols of Efficiency and Convenience, and, in doing so, cast aside so many subtle joys.

This passing of the bookshops is particularly grim news for my old friend, The Bookseller, who suddenly finds himself being forced to embrace a career change in his forties. He's muttering vaguely about applying to some public libraries. I hope that works out for him, but it will still be quite a jarring culture-shift. I think he may need some counselling.

So may I. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself on trips back to Oxford from now on, if I can't fritter away an afternoon here and there in his bookshop.