Among bibliophiles there is never a more contentious subject than the mega bookstore chain.  On one hand, they represent the capitalistic mini-mall sameness that envelopes America, choking the life out of independent bookstores.  And on the other hand, “Look at all these books!”  Michael Chabon, in his first novel Mysteries of Pittsburgh, describes such retail behemoths as “…organized as though the management had hoped to sell luncheon meat or lawn-care products but had somehow be tricked by an unscrupulous wholesaler—I imagined the disappointed ‘What the hell are we going to do all these damn books?’ of the owners, who had started in postcard and seaside souvenirs on the Jersey shore.  As far as they were concerned, a good book was still plump little paper-back that knew how to sit in a beach bag and keep its dirty mouth shut.”

And no brand name embodies the sentiment more than Barnes & Noble. With over 750 locations throughout all 50 states, it has scaled the American consumer consciousness and reached the heights of Kleenex and Tylenol.  No longer does one say “I’m going to the bookstore,” but rather “I’m going to Barnes & Noble.”  For an American corporation to reach such a level of success, a drive of nothing less than criminal ruthlessness is required.

About here is where I should insert a declaimer: I used to work for Barnes & Noble.  Not in the corporate division or as a public relations lackey, but as a lowly bookseller.  It was the first job I ever had (I started when I was 16) and years later, when I was in graduate school, I found myself working the same position in the original Barnes and Noble bookstore on 18th and Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.

I have nothing against independent bookstores—some of my favorite memories are wandering through tiny bookshops built into ancient storefronts looking for something new to read or exploring mammoth warehouses of used and remainder titles [insert shout out to Powell’s Books in Portland OR] looking for old favorites.  But going up against the bookstore equivalent of the Galactic Empire from Star Wars, they will always lose. And I’m starting to think that maybe that’s not a bad thing.

In an ideal world, I would love to shop at a privately owned bookstore.  But we don’t live in an ideal world.  Last week, I went the Strand Bookstore in Greenwhich Village (the visit is what got me thinking about this).  To be honest, I couldn’t tell much of the difference.  The service was relatively the same (annoyance at being bothered with a question); and the book I was looking for was a remainder copy, so the price wasn’t that much lower.  The only discernibly unique quality was that indy bookstore atmosphere.  And don’t all independent bookstores seem to have the same ambiance of intellectual hipness mixed with a pretension?  I’ll take the cookie cuter green carpeted stores with the smell of Starbucks coffee and the auditory samplings of the Buena Vista Social Club over that anytime.

In the end it comes down to this: along with its national reach, Barnes & Noble has developed a state of the art supply system that keeps each store’s ever churning stock up to date. So you can walk into any branch from Arizona to New Hampshire and find among the latest diet books and mass market thrillers a decent collection of both classical and contemporary literature at decent prices. Quality books available for the masses.  That’s why I will always love you, Barnes & Noble.