李梓

在網(wǎng)上書店的沖擊下，實(shí)體書店紛紛倒閉，但也有些書店留了下來(lái)，成為城市中一處不可多得的人文風(fēng)景。作為買書之人，雖喜歡網(wǎng)上書店的高效和便捷，但在很多人心里，實(shí)體書店仍是一種美好的所在。在這里，我們與人相遇、別離，觸碰到生命中的點(diǎn)滴感動(dòng)；在這里，我們覺(jué)得自己不再是數(shù)字世界的一個(gè)符號(hào)，而是活生生的人。

The week before Christmas last year， the bookstore I worked for ran out of All the Light We Cannot See， the most buzzed-about book of the holiday season. It was back-ordered1）， and we couldnt get it in the store until December 29th.

“What am I supposed to get my wife？” a man demanded. “Thats what she wanted.”

Get her another book， I wanted to suggest， but instead I apologized from my perch behind the counter， explaining that the publisher hadnt printed enough copies.

“I want to support local bookstores， but you people are really making me want to go to Amazon，” he said.

“The book is backordered on Amazon too，” I told him， as politely as I could. “They cant get it to you before Christmas either.”

Nothing about this conversation was unusual. Customers regularly threaten booksellers with Amazon， like its a weapon they can deploy2） to get what they want from us. “I could get this much cheaper on Amazon，” people tell me when checking out.

These book buyers want to feel good about themselves for shopping in a bookstore， but they want special credit for it too， as if the bookstore should give out gold star stickers along with receipts. People love the ease， anonymity and convenience of shopping on Amazon， but many do feel guilty about shopping for books online—we know bookstores are where real live authors hold events and where little kids can go to a story hour on Saturdays. We know that the money spent in bookstores sustains a lively town center； it doesnt go to buy Jeff Bezos another rocket ship.

So readers congratulate themselves when they make it to a bookstore， but are annoyed when its not a perfect transaction. The books are more expensive than they are online， and sometimes theres a line to check out. And man， do customers hate waiting in line. We have become a culture that refuses to wait for books.

We want shopping in person to be as quick and easy as shopping online is. It is not， and last year， during the holiday rush， I began to understand the value of this slowness.

I took a job at my local bookstore in order to supplement money I earned from a fellowship， but bookselling quickly became something much more than rent money to me. It was a job Id been training for my entire life， a job that required knowing more about books than the average person. I had always read more and read faster than most people I knew. But no one can read everything， and in my years as a bookseller， Ive learned to listen to NPR in the morning because someone will almost always come in later that day wanting a book that they heard about on the way to work. I remember one customer in particular： “I dont know the author or the title， but it has something to do with World War II and love letters.”

“I heard that on the radio too，” I told him， and went off to fetch the book.

I had other customers get so excited when I found the book they wanted based only on some very vague descriptions （“Blue cover， I think its about Italy？”） that they hugged me.

“Whats cool about that—the blue cover， Italy thing—is thats really hard for a computer，” my husband told me. He studies artificial intelligence， and he loves Amazon. Other than the fact that Id complain about it， I dont think he would miss bookstores much if they were gone.

What he doesnt seem to understand is the thing Ive come to learn： There are people who really need bookstores， people who I have come to know well. There is a therapist who works next door， and he buys and reads more novels than I would think is humanly possible or financially responsible. When one of our booksellers was snowed in overnight at work， the therapist let her sleep on his couch. There is a man who wears a leather cowboy hat， and he told me he almost never leaves his apartment except to come into the store. He always tips his hat to me before he leaves （really）. And every Saturday， a father and his young son come in to buy a new Geronimo Stilton3） book， which is a series about an adventurous mouse. I eventually learned that the father was going through a divorce， and the bookstore was one of the things that both he and the little boy really looked forward to.

Last December， a customer in a wheelchair told me that he was dying. He explained： “I need a book to give to my family that helps them to understand that Im the same person， even though I dont look the way I used to. Im so tired of them treating me differently， like theyre afraid of me.” He wanted a book to help them let him go. We talked for some time about what he really wanted from the book， and I told him wed special order a few books for him. The bookstore owner and I brainstormed and researched， and we ordered 10 books. When the man came back a few days later to see what wed found， he bought a few. He said simply： “Thank you for listening to me.”

Bookstores are for people who arent always listened to， or for people who dont always have someone to talk to. Bookstores often attract people who are otherwise introverted， or people who dont realize how much they need a social connection. Its a comforting environment to socialize， an easy place to strike up a conversation. Theres always something to talk about： books， of course， but we also talk about our families， the weather， the good restaurants around here. We give directions to the bank and to the coffee shop. We talk about our love of dogs （its a dog-friendly store）， and we even talk about politics.

But the day when I most clearly understood what bookstores really offer us occurred last year when in the midst of the holiday chaos， my high school history teacher came in to shop and I almost cried when I saw him. He didnt remember me at all， but it didnt matter. Mr. Cho was the first teacher I had in high school to make me feel smart， to make me feel worthy， a way I hadnt felt in years， not since elementary school. After the first test in his class， Mr. Cho wrote me a postcard about how smart and capable he believed I was， and that he knew I could do well. This was the same year my English teacher told my parents that he thought I was “such a pretty girl， Im surprised when she opens her mouth and says something smart.”

Mr. Cho is still very young now， so he must have been a really young teacher when I had him， maybe 24 or 25 then. In the bookstore more than 10 years later， I told him what a profound impact he had on me. I told him I believed he had changed the course of the rest of my life.

“Really？” he said. “I was such an asshole back then.”

I laughed， and assured him he wasnt an asshole， at least never to me.

That Christmas， I realized we may never know the value of the gifts we give to others every day. And it is at bookstores， at actual physical places， that we make connections with other people， where we give and receive small ordinary gestures of humanity. If I had run into Mr. Cho on the street， I might not have said anything. He didnt recognize me or remember me， so I might have let him walk on by. It was because we were at the bookstore， a place where I feel confident and knowledgeable， that I said hello and we connected. And that was the moment I understood why we all keep coming to these places that some might call obsolete： that it is in such places that we can still feel like more than a confirmation number， that we can still feel like a person in the world.

去年圣誕節(jié)前一周，我打工的書店賣光了《所有我們看不見(jiàn)的光》這本假日季人們談?wù)撟疃嗟臅?。書暫時(shí)缺貨，我們要到12月29號(hào)才能補(bǔ)到貨。

“那我該給妻子送什么？”一位先生逼問(wèn)道，“她就想要那本書?！?/p>

送她另外一本吧，我本來(lái)想這么建議，但卻沒(méi)說(shuō)。相反，我坐在柜臺(tái)里的高腳凳上向他致歉，解釋說(shuō)是因?yàn)槌霭嫔逃∷⒌膬?cè)數(shù)不夠。

“我想支持本地書店，但是你們這些人真是讓我想去亞馬遜買書?！彼f(shuō)。

“這本書在亞馬遜也缺貨，”我盡可能禮貌地對(duì)他說(shuō)，“他們也沒(méi)法讓您在圣誕節(jié)前拿到書?！?/p>

這樣的對(duì)話時(shí)有發(fā)生。顧客們經(jīng)常用亞馬遜來(lái)威脅傳統(tǒng)書店，仿佛那是一種他們能用來(lái)讓自己得償所愿的武器似的。“我如果在亞馬遜買這個(gè)可以便宜很多?！比藗?cè)诮Y(jié)賬的時(shí)候這樣告訴我。

這些購(gòu)書者想讓自己在書店買書的時(shí)候自我感覺(jué)良好，但他們還想為此獲得特殊榮譽(yù)，好像書店應(yīng)該在給他們收據(jù)的同時(shí)附上金星貼花似的。人們喜歡在亞馬遜購(gòu)書的輕松、匿名和便利，但是許多人又覺(jué)得網(wǎng)絡(luò)購(gòu)書很有罪惡感——我們知道傳統(tǒng)書店是活生生的作者們會(huì)舉辦活動(dòng)的地方，是孩子們周六能參加一小時(shí)故事活動(dòng)的地方。我們知道花在傳統(tǒng)書店的錢能使市中心生氣勃勃；這些錢不會(huì)被杰夫·貝索夫拿去買另一艘太空飛船。

因此，讀者們踏進(jìn)傳統(tǒng)書店時(shí)為自己感到驕傲，但是倘若交易不完美就會(huì)很惱火。一來(lái)，書比網(wǎng)上賣的貴，二來(lái)有時(shí)結(jié)賬還得排隊(duì)。啊呀，顧客真的太討厭排隊(duì)等了，大家已經(jīng)形成了一種拒絕等書的文化。

我們希望線下購(gòu)物能和線上購(gòu)物一樣快捷方便。但不是這樣。而直到去年，在節(jié)日購(gòu)物高峰期，我才領(lǐng)悟到這種慢的價(jià)值。

為了填補(bǔ)獎(jiǎng)學(xué)金的不足，我到自己上學(xué)的當(dāng)?shù)貢甏蚬?。但我很快就發(fā)現(xiàn)，賣書這份工作對(duì)我來(lái)說(shuō)遠(yuǎn)遠(yuǎn)不只是掙房租錢。這是一份我一生都要接受培訓(xùn)才能勝任的工作，它要求我比一般人更了解書籍。我向來(lái)比我認(rèn)識(shí)的大多數(shù)人都讀得多，讀得快。但是沒(méi)有人能讀遍所有的書，因此在書店賣書的這些年，我學(xué)會(huì)了在早上收聽(tīng)美國(guó)國(guó)家公共電臺(tái)的書籍介紹，因?yàn)楫?dāng)天晚些時(shí)候，總是會(huì)有人來(lái)買他們上班路上聽(tīng)到的書籍。我尤其記得有一位顧客是這樣說(shuō)的，“我不知道書名是什么，也不知道作者是誰(shuí)，反正就是一本和二戰(zhàn)與情書有關(guān)的書。”

“我也在廣播里聽(tīng)到這本了。”我告訴他，然后轉(zhuǎn)身把書取給他。

還有一些顧客會(huì)非常模糊地描述某本書（“藍(lán)色封面，好像和意大利有關(guān)？”）。當(dāng)我僅根據(jù)這些找到他們想要的書時(shí)，他們會(huì)激動(dòng)地過(guò)來(lái)跟我擁抱。

“僅根據(jù)‘藍(lán)色封面、和意大利有關(guān)就能找到書，這件事之所以讓人覺(jué)得酷，是因?yàn)殡娔X真的很難做到這一點(diǎn)?！蔽依瞎@樣告訴我。他是研究人工智能的，而且鐘愛(ài)在亞馬遜買書。要不是考慮到我會(huì)抱怨，就算傳統(tǒng)書店消失了，我認(rèn)為他也不會(huì)有多懷念。

他似乎不理解的事情正是我逐漸認(rèn)識(shí)到的事情：有一些人真的需要傳統(tǒng)書店，這些人正是我慢慢了解的。有一位治療師在書店隔壁工作，他買了很多小說(shuō)去讀，我都覺(jué)得一般人根本讀不了那么多，從經(jīng)濟(jì)角度看也不負(fù)責(zé)任。我們的一位店員因下雪被困在書店過(guò)夜時(shí)，治療師讓她睡在他的沙發(fā)上。還有一位帶牛仔皮帽的男士，他告訴我他除了來(lái)書店幾乎從不離開他的公寓，他每次離開書店前總向我舉帽致意（他真那么做）。另外，每逢周六，一位父親會(huì)帶著他年幼的兒子來(lái)到書店，買一本新的杰羅尼摩·斯蒂頓的書，那是關(guān)于一只愛(ài)冒險(xiǎn)的老鼠的系列叢書。我后來(lái)才知道，當(dāng)時(shí)這位父親正在經(jīng)歷一場(chǎng)離婚，來(lái)書店是他和兒子都特別盼望的事情之一。

去年12月，一位坐著輪椅的顧客告訴我他快要不久于人世，他解釋說(shuō)：“我需要一本書給我的家人，幫助他們明白我還是原來(lái)的我，盡管我看起來(lái)不像以前那樣。我實(shí)在受不了他們對(duì)我另眼相待，就像他們怕我一樣?！彼枰槐緯鴣?lái)幫助家人接受他的離世。我們談了一會(huì)，聊了聊他真正想從書里得到什么，然后我告訴他，我們會(huì)特別為他訂幾本書。我和書店老板一起頭腦風(fēng)暴并做了研究，最后訂了十本書。幾天后，他再次來(lái)到書店看看我們找到了什么書，買了幾本。他只是說(shuō)了句，“謝謝你們傾聽(tīng)我的心聲?！?/p>

書店是為那些平常缺乏聽(tīng)眾的人或沒(méi)有傾吐對(duì)象的人而存在的。書店常常吸引的是那些在其他場(chǎng)合很內(nèi)向的人，或是那些沒(méi)意識(shí)到自己多么需要社交的人。書店提供了一個(gè)進(jìn)行社交活動(dòng)的自在環(huán)境，也是一個(gè)可以輕易開啟話題的地方。我們總是有話可聊：當(dāng)然可以談?wù)摃?，但是我們也可以聊聊家庭、天氣、附近有哪些好吃的餐廳。我們?yōu)閯e人指路，告訴他們銀行和咖啡店在哪里。我們可以聊聊我們心愛(ài)的狗狗（這是一家允許帶狗進(jìn)入的書店），我們甚至可以聊聊政治。

但是，我最為清晰地領(lǐng)悟到書店真正給我們帶來(lái)了什么是在去年的某一天。當(dāng)時(shí)正值假日忙亂之際，我的高中歷史老師走進(jìn)店里，看到他時(shí)我差點(diǎn)哭了出來(lái)。他一點(diǎn)都不記得我了，但是這沒(méi)關(guān)系。這位曹老師是高中時(shí)代第一位讓我覺(jué)得自己聰明、覺(jué)得自己有價(jià)值的老師，自從小學(xué)畢業(yè)后我好多年都沒(méi)有過(guò)這種感覺(jué)了。他的課程第一次測(cè)驗(yàn)之后，曹老師寫了一張明信片給我，說(shuō)他相信我有多聰明多能干，說(shuō)他知道我可以做得很好。而在同一年，我的英語(yǔ)老師告訴我爸媽：他覺(jué)得我是“個(gè)非常漂亮的女孩，我很驚訝她能開口說(shuō)出這么聰明的話”。

曹老師現(xiàn)在仍然很年輕，所以他教我的時(shí)候一定是位非常年輕的老師，那時(shí)大概二十四五歲吧。十多年之后在書店，我告訴他，他對(duì)我產(chǎn)生了多么深遠(yuǎn)的影響，我告訴他，我相信他改變了我后來(lái)的人生。

“真的嗎？”他說(shuō)，“我那時(shí)候很煩人吧?！?/p>

我笑了，跟他保證他當(dāng)時(shí)一點(diǎn)也不惹人煩，至少在我眼里從來(lái)不曾那樣。

那年圣誕節(jié)，我意識(shí)到我們可能永遠(yuǎn)都不會(huì)知道我們每天給別人帶來(lái)的禮物有多么珍貴。正是在書店里，在這種實(shí)體場(chǎng)所，我們才能與他人產(chǎn)生聯(lián)系，給予并接受那些小小的、平凡的人性表達(dá)。假如我是在街上遇到曹老師，我很可能什么都不會(huì)說(shuō)。畢竟他不認(rèn)得我，也不記得我，我很可能只是與他擦肩而過(guò)。但正是因?yàn)槲覀冊(cè)跁昀锵嘤觥粋€(gè)讓我覺(jué)得有自信、有學(xué)問(wèn)的地方，我才主動(dòng)打了招呼，于是我們產(chǎn)生了聯(lián)系。而且也就是在那一刻，我才明白我們?yōu)槭裁磿?huì)一直來(lái)這些有些人認(rèn)為過(guò)時(shí)的地方：正是在這些地方，我們還能覺(jué)得自己不僅僅是一個(gè)確認(rèn)碼，我們還能覺(jué)得自己是世界上一個(gè)活生生的人。

1. back-ordered：缺貨的

2. deploy [d??pl??] vt. 利用

3. Geronimo Stilton：杰羅尼摩·斯蒂頓，既是《老鼠記者》（Geronimo Stilton）系列叢書作者的名字，也是書中的主人公一只老鼠的名字。這個(gè)系列主要講的是老鼠杰羅尼摩·斯蒂頓和他的伙伴們一同冒險(xiǎn)的故事。