November 18. Went to the Strand Bookstore with J. It makes me sad to go there, or shall we say: It disturbs me. So much so that ever since we met, J had resigned herself to the fact that she would never go to the Strand with me, even though she likes to do it herself. But I’m not like that at all. Please, we can go to the Strand, I’m up for it, I don’t mind, shall we go today? Yes, yes, don’t worry about it.

It makes me sad to see the words in those paper graves, although here, unlike in Germany, there is much less of that rule: sophistication equals paper. Most of what I see here is also available digitally. Except the treasures, of course. But it disturbs me when I ask myself: Does this temple of books really leave me unmoved? And: Are there really digital equivalents to the way you make discoveries in a bookstore, especially a well-run one? – There are not. And I’m not sure what’s missing. It would be a life’s work to build something equivalent, a task like that of the Strand’s most famous employee, who took care of fiction for thirty years and died in 2021.