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"To browse or not to browse?" Shakespeare might have asked the question had he the option of Internet. I do have the option, but for me there's no contest between buying a book "long distance" and browsing through a bookstore.
I have been a browser since my mother gave me my first "serious" book, Rudyard Kipling's "The Reincarnation of Krishna Mulvaney," serious in being light years more sophisticated than the Horatio Alger series I was weaned on.
There is nothing quite so hypnotic as browsing through a bookstore, or quite so satisfying. There aren't too many browsing options available, however, if your interest is in Catholic books or other high-quality religious works.
That makes the Paraclete Book Center a vital resource--that and the cordiality of its owners and operators, the diversity of its volumes, the convenience of its location at 146 E. 74th St. in Manhattan, between Lexington and Third.
There can be no question of the value of Catholic bookstores in the heart of this big, busy city, whether it be Paraclete or any others. There is a question, however, about how much longer any Catholic bookstore will be able to survive. Their loss would be a pity, no matter how easy it may be to shop by Internet or in some other discreet but impersonal fashion. Books are meant to be taken off shelves or out of stalls or from the tops of tables and looked at, held in the hand while leafing through the index, compared with a half-dozen other works sitting nearby. Bookstores are meant to be havens, "deformalized" libraries where one may chat with another browser, or the manager or owner. Bookstores are places for getting the most fascinating advice and insights.
Who has such time? A book is a book is a book. If it catches my eye in The New York Times Book Review, I'll send for it. Ah, but listen to G.K. Chesterton, that funny fat man who was infinitely wiser than the celebrated Delphic oracle of Apollo.
"Nothing is important except the fate of the souls and literature is only redeemed from an utter triviality, surpassing that of naughts and crosses, by the fact that it describes not the world around us, or the things on the retina of the eye, or the enormous irrelevancy of encyclopedias, but some condition to which the human spirit can come."
I know, of course, that Chesterton is speaking of books, not bookstores, but if a good book describes "some condition to which the human spirit can come," how much more does a whole bookstore do precisely that? Am I stretching? I don't think so but, as I said, I'm a browser.
Obviously, one could write to the Paraclete, or call (212) 535-4050, to order a book, as one could contact the Daughters of St. Paul, who have a beautiful bookstore at 150 E. 52nd St., telephone (212) 754-1110, or the Franciscans at 131 W. 31st St., telephone (212) 736-8500. But a phone call is significantly less than hypnotic. Browsing is, and restores the soul!
Mostly, however, I bring the Paraclete to your attention, because it seems to me in greater danger of demise than others might be. (If I am wrong, I invite others to contact me, and I'll write of them, as well. Indeed, I'd be happy to join with like-minded browsers in a crusade to Save Our Catholic Bookstores.) But at the moment I am worried about this gentle gem on 74th Street that deserves its name of Paraclete. It is, indeed, a comfort in our midst. How mournful to think of losing it.
