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Considering I have now permanently moved to a town without a single dedicated bookstore, it’s ironic that the trigger for this entire honey adventure was one beautiful children’s book. The book came from a crumpled nameless bookstore on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The bookstore had a guard dog with grey dreadlocks, and when it stood on its hind-legs it was twice my height. The basement of the bookstore had scarlet and gold scraps of leather scattered in piles of stars on the floor, and the walls shook from the 2, 4, and 6 trains shuddering on their tracks nearby. The book was a gift from my father, and the bookstore was his hideout. He was a famous book and print collector, and his midnight hobby was finding, buying, and rebinding valuable books. He was a self-appointed book-saving vigilante, and this was his secret layer. Read the rest of this entry →