Forget the Coop and Get Back to Basics

For many Harvard students, the initial run on textbooks at the Coop will be the only time they visit a bookstore this semester. Which is a shame, because while Harvard Square may lack Central Square’s abundance of vendors selling groceries and sexual paraphernalia, it’s one of the best places in Boston to browse for books. Until last week, that is. Recent developments at one of the Square’s largest booksellers have pitted bibliophiles against Coop officials.

For anyone who has enough of a life to have not followed the scandal, here’s a quick recap: enterprising Harvard students attempt to copy ISBN numbers of course books in order to purchase them more cheaply elsewhere. The Coop calls in the Cambridge Police, who recognize the situation is ridiculous and refuse to boot the students. Frenzied debate ensues over the Coop’s role in serving students and the Harvard community.

A recent editorial in The Crimson made the argument that as a cooperative, the Coop has a responsibility to consider the interests of the community it serves. Even though most of the Coop is run by corporate giant Barnes & Noble, it has always presented itself as primarily part of the Harvard community.

Regardless of the status of the Coop as a co-operative, the culture of bookstores is one that relies on building communities in order to sell books.

It’s become almost impossible to find a bookstore that limits itself to only selling books. A spokeswoman for the American Booksellers Association recently told The New York Times that the bookstores thriving today are those that become more diversified with “a really vibrant cafe, a smart selection of books, and really great non-book items.”

My first job was in one such diversified bookstore that sold local music and hummus-laden bagels alongside Rushdie and Stephen King. Opened by two aging hippies, the bookstore was a patchouli-scented downtown institution with walls buried under rainbow flags and Che Guevara posters.

The store has survived thanks to its role as a watering hole for the local hippie community. Unfortunately for me, this meant that, despite the fact that I was better-read than the majority of the staff, I had to be hidden in the back storeroom, where my sound hygiene wouldn’t disturb the patrons.

For that bookstore and many like it, the attached café is central to the marketing of the bookstore as community-builder. More traditional bookstores, such as the Harvard Bookstore, use author readings and book club suggestions to create a sense of community.

My favorite bookstore in Boston, Commonwealth Books, lacks any such accoutrements. It’s a throwback to a time when bookstores did nothing but sell books.

The branch by Boston Common is housed in a creaky building with multiple floors of small nooks, all overflowing with used books and distressed leather armchairs. Its Web site a is no-nonsense list of new stock and pictures of the store locations.

Bookstores like Commonwealth rely on a small, hard-core demographic that is willing to pay a premium for the experience of book buying in spite of the convenience of Amazon.com or large chains. This reliance on consumer loyalty creates a unique relationship between small bookstores and their patrons.

Most booksellers allow their shoppers liberties that other industries don’t. Few grocery stores allow you to sit for hours at a time in their store consuming their products without paying anything, but that should be the norm in a bookstore. A pivotal part of the experience is the fact that the bookstore will allow you to sit there and read, even if you aren’t going to buy.

­—Staff writer Madeline K.B. Ross can be reached at mross@fas.harvard.edu.