Going Through Old Notebooks Part 17: The Magazine Aisle

It is tempting, even, to abandon all ambition and return to that innocence, that quiet glow, that feeling...

Some things I bought from the magazine aisle that evening.

This is taken from a short notebook entry written in early 2022. It’s a snapshot from another time, and reflects neither my current life nor our political moment, but sharing these things and interacting with readers is what’s keeping me going right now. So I’m sharing this, while I work on other, more current things I plan to share soon. I hope you enjoy some of these recollections and revisions in the meantime.

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Today I did an allegedly old fashioned thing. I went to the Smith & Son English-language bookshop on the rue de Rivoli in Paris after dark and browsed through the magazine aisle. I flipped through travel magazines I had never heard of, and heard the eternal footman snicker at how thin the section was of the racks labeled “literature.” The most recent New Yorker, filed under “General Interest,” was several weeks out of date. I could not find The Paris Review. I could not find McSweeneys. However—and I hate to admit this—there was something calming about opening up previously unknown publications, or those less often read by me, and not recognizing any of the bylines.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to see books and articles in the wild by writers I am acquainted with. I am among those who, when seeing the latest title by an online pal or literary colleague displayed in a store, cannot help but proclaim loudly: “OH LOOK, this book is by MY FRIEND, so-and-so!”

But sometimes, things can feel more complicated. Knowing how the sausage is made, as well as the sausage-makers, can sometimes take some of the innocence out of browsing a bookstore.

Today however, in the magazine aisle, I felt for a few moments like it was 1997. Like I, oblivious to the Internet and all it would one day hold and destroy, was camped on the floor of a Borders Books & Music, turning the pages of a stack of magazines. It felt like an old dance, to be there like that, with the night pressed against the windows, and everything inside so bright and clean. Me, and the magazines, and the low susurration of the other patrons in the store; the smell and feel of ink and paper.

I want there to be so many more literary magazines. I want there to be a hundred different magazines, filled with features, essays, and stories, that are not necessarily tied to any artificially relevant thing. I want this: a world far away from algorithms and click-bait, far away from the meddling of billionaires. It is tempting, even, to abandon all ambition and return to that innocence, that quiet glow, that feeling: the bookstore at night, and the unsurpassed beauty of falling in love with new words on a fresh page.