Walking into a used bookstore and browsing is a singular pleasure. Time drops away as you meander among the too-close shelves, inhaling the musty perfume of volume upon volume of forgotten lore. Treasures await around every turn, behind every copy of the Compleat Idiot's guide to Volkswagen repair and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Instructions for new activities and philosophies of life, recipes, maps of far-off lands. Sometimes there are even vinyl records of bands you'd forgotten you liked. They're extra-special on rainy days. As a young person, used bookstores afford the chance to read things your parents wouldn't want you to see, while cloaked in the guise of respectable intellectualism. Used bookstores are a bargain-priced gateway to exotic worlds, the panacea for latter-day technological overload. There's always something interesting, and always the chance to escape from mundane concerns in a cozy afternoon among the shelves.
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