Sad news for Malibu and in particular my neighborhood of Point Dume: our only bookstore, the Bank of Books, is closing its doors this spring, as I lament in my latest commentary on 97.5 KBU and radiomalibu.net., and in print here.
Despite a host of well-attended and publicized readings, congenial signings and outdoor seating in an amiable setting, its sales apparently have stagnated in the four years it had persevered in the cozy Point Dume Plaza. I for one will miss it.
No doubt E books, Amazon and discount stores have taken their toll. To be sure, E books are attractive; they certainly don’t take up much room, and audio books I feel can ease the pain of long commutes we in Malibu must endure..
But I frankly love books, the printed kind, on sheets of paper, in type face of varied styles, bound together within covers, of evocative designs hinting at the works of fiction or non fiction within, and the worlds of ideas, emotion and histoy
Books for me have been a constant companion, comfort and challenge; from the day I got a library card in a burgeoning Brooklyn of the past. There libraries were something akin to an ecumenical house of worship, a hushed community center, and for a large family living in cramped apartments, our living room.
As a student, a reader and especially as a critic, I have been over the years accumulating thousands of books, literally a ton of them, conscientiously trucking them with me as I moved from place to place, city to city. I might leave a piece of furniture behind, but never a box of books.
Occasionally prodded by largess or lack of space, I have parted with a few from time to time, donating them to schools and libraries, and giving them to those I know would appreciate them. Books for me have always been the gift of choice.
Still books are everywhere in my house: in almost every room, walls of packed shelves from floor to ceiling, piled on tables and stacked in corners, roughly sorted by authors and subjects. And then there is the singular shelves with books I have written, all four of them, and those of my friends and family.
Most prominent these day is a thin, searing book of poetry entitled Poem Without Suffering (Wonder Books), written by my middle son, Josef Hall Kaplan. I immodestly note with pride that it has risen to Eighth nationally on the poetry best seller list of small publishers, and number One in our home.