Negative balance

When the Red Line crosses the Salt and Pepper Bridge, you get that glorious view, Beacon Hill shouldering Back Bay stretching to Kenmore Square, lined on the edge of an ice-jammed Charles. The sight has to cheer, especially midweek midafternoon on a trip to book Mecca, Harvard Square. Underground to Kendall (they have books) and Central Square (2 or 3 stores) - and then grey settled as I emerged into daylight. Cherry Chinese lanterns lining Mass Ave for the New Year couldn’t lift the gloom.

And it hit me – the bank to bookstore ratio, down from nearly 30 shops when I was young, long before Abercrombie met Fitch. The robber barons and their brats have squeezed the books out of the Square, and they wouldn't give you the price of an overdue library fine.

The question remains: who reads and what do we read - tea leaves, tweets, tv guides. And why we don’t read: the tragic legion (growing) of those who can’t, and those who won’t (sorrier still) and those who will not anymore. So little time, I suppose. ‘Souvenirs’ of culture are stacked 8 deep next to my bed, and a dozen more queue in my head…who am I kidding?

Maybe a quarter of a million books were published last year, and here we are making more. Just a couple dozen each year, and good books, but more books, and fewer eyes to see. Well, let there be a bounty, more than we can consume. Welcome more than we can ever read so the world has no known boundary. My sin is too many books, and I am guilty.