I found myself in a suburban Barnes & Noble yesterday, killing time before a nearby restaurant opened. The store was packed with people trying to find cheapish gifts, and there were piles and piles of sale books, remainders, B&N house-published collections of 19th century and early 20th century authors whose work is in the public domain — Poe seemed to be selling well, Henry James not so much — and numerous tables and racks of non-book dreck: calendars, games, puzzles, notebooks, coffee, mugs, stationery, bookmarks, DVDs, candy, and whatall. As a friend who recently retired after ten years as a Borders general manager told me: “It’s not bookselling any longer — it’s just retail.”

In the middle of this muddle, the staff at the information desk seemed slightly weary but were models of patience and helpfulness. I asked one woman about a fiction author and she seemed relieved not to be answering a question about where the knitting books were. Or maybe I’m just projecting my own feelings from when I worked at a Borders a couple of years ago.

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