Studies in Pessimism

It’s rough out there. Staying positive can present a bit of a challenge these days, especially if you are, like me, of a naturally melancholic bent to begin with. Billion dollar bailouts. Terrorist attacks. Dwindling retirement accounts. Falling home prices. And that’s just out there in the macrocosm. Here in my own personal little microcosm, conditions aren’t a whole lot better. One friend is on the verge of losing her house to foreclosure. A former co-worker from the NYYC committed suicide last month. Evils big and little seem to be multiplying exponentially all around me, like a cartoon snowball careening down a hill, growing huger & more avalanche-like as it picks up speed. Christmas is coming. My bank account never looked worse. My cat is still missing. My 52nd birthday looms. My weight is not what it should be. My houses aren’t selling. Another turn of the snowball. Add some self-doubt to the equation. What had I accomplished with my life? My achievements felt, well…small, my contributions paltry, my significance negligible. The upbeat approach was fast becoming a thing of the past, a speck in the distance.

So there was nothing else for it - it was time for a trip to the bookstore. When my internal settings need adjusting, only a bookstore can fix me. A conflicted agnostic, I don’t have a church. A therapy drop-out, I don’t have a therapist. I do, however, have a bookstore right down the street. So it was there I turned my trudging steps towards.

It’s been a bad decade for bookstores on the island, and the Newport ones have been steadily disappearing ever since the Barnes & Noble opened in Middletown several years ago. The sole exception has been Kelley’s Books, on the corner of Broadway and Malbone. A used bookstore on a busy street without so much as a parking lot, Kelley’s is an unlikely candidate for role of sole survivor, but there you have it. Used books, bent covers, poor overhead lighting. No lattes are served, no fresh mozzarella & pesto panini are available, no cds or greeting cards or magazines are sold. The inventory isn’t computerized, the proprietor tracks his customers on hand printed index cards he keeps in a dented metal box under the register and the background music isn’t even Muzak – there’s just a staticky radio tuned to a classical music FM station. Kelley’s is an un-hip throwback to a time when the only reason you went to a bookstore was to look for books, period. Even better, since it’s a used bookstore, your finds are pretty much dictated by chance and serendipity. Any pre-planned agenda is pointless; the only way to go is to abdicate all pretense at control and just browse, drift with the tides. And maybe it is precisely this not having to be in mental control that is the sweet secret reward of a visit to the bookstore. What a relief to not have to be responsible for your own consciousness, even just temporarily… In fact, now that I think about it, it’s probably safe to say that just about all of my vices tend in that direction. Farewell, self!

But back to the books. Instead of finding what you’re looking for, you’ll find what you weren’t looking for, and sometimes what you didn’t even know existed. Did I need a book on three modern Icelandic poets? I didn’t even know Iceland had any modern poets. Did I walk in there in search of yet another copy of Boswell’s Life of Johnson? Nah. Did I have any intention of settling down with a good re-read of Schopenhauer’s Studies in Pessimism? Nope. But no way could I resist the gloriously self-pitying melodrama of his opening line, to wit, “Unless suffering is the direct and immediate object of life, our existence must entirely fail of its aim.” Bitter words, fighting words, succinctly if mordantly put, and so completely over the top that I burst out laughing, right there in the aisle.

So if you’re feeling the pain of the season, I suggest you hie yourself over to Kelley’s for a dose of righteous attitude readjustment. Forget real estate. Forget the economy. Forget your mortgage and your car payment and your tax problems. Lose yourself in the stacks. Flip through an art book. Check out the science fiction. Pull out that classic you’ve always been meaning to read. You’ll be chuckling along with Schopenhauer in no time.