You know you are in a literary city when the taxi driver starts waxing poetic as he drives past the public library. There aren't many cities where libraries inspire such passion, but Seattle is one of them.

I recently spent a weekend in Seattle, and when I visit the Emerald City, I always stay at the hotel right across the street from the new Central Library because there is something wonderful about looking out of my window at night, through the glass facade of the library building and into the quiet stacks of books.

Seattle's Central Library has its share of detractors, to be sure. A year ago, when I visited the library for the second time, they were replacing the flooring in one section because it had already worn out. (While the expense and hassle was probably a distraction for the staff, can you think of a more wonderful problem for a library to have? Too many visitors!)

If you aren't familiar with the Seattle Main Library, you should know that it is an architectural marvel--all glass on the outside and bright colors and big spaces on the inside. The books are shelved on a single continuous spiral, which allows a patron to walk through many floors of books without ever resorting a staircase or elevator. That's a grand idea, though I found constantly walking up and down the slope to be a bit tiresome when I spent an afternoon doing research.

Still, what I admire about the facility and Rem Koolhaas's design is that it attempts to reinvent every part of the library. The architect and the planning committee threw caution to the wind and aimed to build something extraordinary. If they didn't always succeed with the details, they did succeed in building a monument to books that is a real object of adoration in the community. I've sat on enough government committees to know that taking any risk at all is rare for an organization like a library or city government. At the Seattle Central Library, it's hard to find a single aspect of the facility that was a safe choice. I am amazed at the risks they took.

Like many book lovers, I worry about how book culture is going to remain strong in the face of so much digital competition. The Seattle Central Library shows us that we need the audacity of hope and that courage matters. When the taxicab driver is proud of his library, I feel reassured that books still have a place in our culture.

[With apologies to the Democratic and Republican presidential candidates for borrowing from the titles of their books.]

Photo credit: Seattle Public Library

Posted by: Scott Brown

One summer evening, two young girls ran into my bookstore and thundered up the stairs. Pretty soon they began calling out dates. “1887,” cried one. “1876,” the other replied. I soon realized that they were playing a game—looking for the oldest book in the store. Now having two ten-year olds pulling fragile volumes off the shelves to check their dates is not my idea of a good Friday night. But I resisted the temptation to scold them (or their father, who arrived in the shop ten minutes later, coffee in hand). Here, after all, were two kids having fun in an antiquarian bookstore. They were interested in old books and already knew enough to spot nineteenth-century books, which we shelve right alongside modern editions in our literature section.

As I thought about what to do, something Chuck Rozanski wrote came to mind. Rozanski started out thirty-five years ago living in his car with his inventory of comic books. Today, his company, Mile High Comics, is the biggest dealer in comics in the world. Like book lovers, comics fans worry about the future of their hobby. Sales of comic books have declined and comic-book stores have closed perhaps even faster than bookstores. What I admire in Rozanski is his belief that the situation is not inevitable. He recently put the challenge to comics fans everywhere:

I would ask you to consider what you are personally doing to try to save the comics world. I realize that there is not a single one of us who can have any measure of a significant impact solving this kind of dilemma alone, but I do fervently believe that great numbers of people working toward a common goal can create an astonishing level of positive change. To be a bit more specific, I would ask what kind of outreach you have done of late to try to bring new readers into comics?

Change comics to books in the above statement and we have a challenge for every person concerned with the future of the book. Are we going to let the culture of the book dwindle in the face of video games, iPods, and reality TV? Or are we going to do something about it? To use the language of our current politics, are we, as passionate believers in books, going to knuckle-down and implement a book surge, or are we going to raise the white flag of surrender?

I'm not ready to give up, and as the girls’ footsteps thudded above my head, I grabbed the oldest book in the store, a 1563 edition of the ancient physician Galen. I went upstairs and handed it to one of the girls. I showed her how to open an old book carefully. Her eyes grew wide. Her sister leaned in. I showed them the date, written in Roman numerals, and the text printed in Greek. I took them downstairs and let them hold a leaf from the 1493 Nuremberg Chronicle, which is the oldest item in the shop. Then it was time for them to go, and they dashed out of the store as fast as they came in, excitedly chattering about holding a piece of paper printed the year Columbus returned from the New World (a concept they only barely grasped, but they knew it was very old).

As the girls left, I wondered if either of them would become passionate readers? Maybe not, but it’s a lot more likely now than if I had shooed them out of the store. The future of the book comes down to a battle of hearts and minds, and in many cases, it's hand-to-hand combat, winning converts a person at a time.

Posted by: Scott Brown

As the founding editor of Fine Books & Collections magazine, a publication for book collectors, I’ve discovered that writing about book theft is the one sure way to get our readers riled up. In fact, one blogger—Travis McDade—writes exclusively on the subject and another, Philobiblos, covers cases and sentences most every week.

Most thieves strike libraries, purloining valuable books, slicing rare maps from atlases, and slipping signed letters and documents from large archives. E. Forbes Smiley, the high-end map dealer whose name sounded as Upper East Side as the address of the office he kept for a time on Madison Avenue near 75th Street in New York, is probably the most notorious recent thief. You may remember that Smiley was caught at Yale’s Beinecke Library when he dropped an X-acto blade on the floor, and he went to prison for stealing something like 100 rare maps from libraries.

I’ve always understood that libraries walk a fine line between access and security: The more access a library grants, the easier it is to steal from it. That point was hammered home this week when four antique logging photographs were stolen from the bookstore I own. I paid roughly $400 for the pictures, which for us is a significant loss.

I went next door to the jewelry store that is owned by a retired Navy Seal who has an extensive surveillance system that catches the front entrance of my shop. I watched his video of the thief walking in bookstore early in the afternoon and dashing out 24 minutes later. The thief arrived during the lunch hour, when our regular weekday employee was out, and I was covering the store alone. The thief struck me as odd, and I was trying to keep an eye on him. I turned my back at one point and immediately heard a rustling sound. I turned to see him walking out of the building. I crossed the floor to where he had been standing and realized what had happened. By the time I reached the door, he had vanished. The surveillance footage showed the shoplifter dashing outside and into a nearby store. No wonder I couldn’t see him when I went outside to look.

I felt awful for the rest of the day. Telling and retelling the story to the police and the owners of nearby antiques stores, didn’t help. I started to understand how so many merchants end up bitter and suspicious. One nearby shopkeeper told me he lost $15,000 in merchandise during one particularly bad year. Another said he budgeted 8 percent for theft. A third planned 10 percent.

I woke up at 5 a.m. the next morning with a clear head. I have never liked bookstores with locked “rare” book rooms or locked glass cases. They make me feel like I’m distrusted from the moment I walk in. But now I understand the logic behind them, but I don’t agree with it. Something like 10,000 people have walked into my store this year, and only one has stolen anything of note. Does it make sense to spend all my effort deterring the one in 10,000 or serving the 9,999 honest customers?

Libraries face the same question. Like many shopkeepers, a lot of librarians feel under pressure to improve security. But I think we have to be cognizant that many efforts to deter theft also deter legitimate visitors. The safest store or library is one that allows no one inside.

I resolved to stay focused on the honest folks, while keeping in mind that there are people who will steal me blind if given the chance. A stock phrase from twenty-five years ago suddenly had more relevance—Ronald Reagan’s old saw, “Trust but verify.” I never really understood that comment. It always seemed like a contradiction in terms. Now I see that it has everything to do with intentions. I can keep an eye on customers and engage them in conversation because I’m interested in them and what they do in my store. If that allows me to observe or prevent theft, great—as long as I don’t think of them as thieves.

Posted by: Scott Brown