My godfather is a journalist. His area of interest is quite niche; he focuses on horse racing, past and present. He lives in an old, dilapidated house, so old that the “newer” section of it dates back to the Victorian era. Twice a year since I was a child, on my birthday and Christmas, I’ve received books from his library — oftentimes antiques with inscriptions that say ‘Merry Christmas so-and-so, 1886.’ Literature is our favorite topic of conversation. His biannual gifts have spurred my love of reading, especially those secondhand books that have more than one story to tell. 

When my godfather came to New York this spring, I could immediately think of the first stop on our itinerary: Westsider Rare and Used Bookstore, an independent bookstore on the Upper West Side. It is an enclave of artists and writers perusing books and antiques, a survivor of a city long gone, one of the last holdouts of the literary subculture of New York. 

I can easily recall the first time I stumbled upon Westsider. It was 2018, on my older sister’s 16th birthday. She had chosen a restaurant that my family did not typically frequent, and I was uncharacteristically early. It was the very last day of January and very cold, of course. I wanted to walk to Riverside but only made it to Broadway and 80th, where I knew I would need to stop inside somewhere. 

A protruding dark green awning that read ‘BOOKS’ caught my eye. Large bins sat on the street outside — books for a dollar each. Ellora Klein ’22 noted, “Westsider is such a warm and inviting space and it is also the perfect escape from the cold.” 

Admittedly, I was drawn into the store by a black cat with green eyes and patches of missing fur. “Her name is Pig,” said the woman behind the counter. I laughed.

I reached down to pet Pig. After a minute, she darted away, and naturally, I followed her down the narrow aisle to the right of the entrance, where I saw her run through a door flap leading to a room further behind the colossal shelves. Her tail lingered for a second in the cooking section before disappearing entirely. I soon learned that Pig’s growls are loud, and her purrs are quiet but discernible. She likes opera and lox. I often wonder about her intentions.

I rounded the corner past the headshot of Paul McCartney and the jacket of my favorite Beatles album, Rubber Soul, which had been taped to the door my companion Pig had just passed through. Making my way into the fiction section, I was brought eye-to-eye with a pair of shoes. Of course, they were attached to legs, and the person to whom these legs belonged was standing on the seventh rung of a large, rickety wooden ladder reaching almost to the ceiling. 

Paperbacks are on the lower shelves; hardcovers can be retrieved by way of a ladder. Wary visitors who might not like the at-your-own-risk clambering, perhaps intimidated by the creakiness of the ladders, are welcome to use the stairs right in the middle of the store. The steps, though, are inhabited by stacks of books impatiently waiting for their turn to be placed on the shelves.

Beckoned by stacks of old comic books (I always cross my fingers and hope to find a Calvin and Hobbes), I make sure to include the second floor in my Westsider experience during every visit. Usually, this involves thumbing through photo albums of Old New York, resisting the temptation to touch cabinets that say “DO NOT TOUCH,” and wanting to buy that old typewriter I’ve been eyeing.

On my first trip to Westsider, I found a collection of Edgar Allan Poe that included works I hadn’t seen before, like The Oblong Box and The Oval Portrait. More recently, after months of searching, I found Roscoe (Albany Cycle #7) by William Kennedy hiding amongst the double-stacked books crowding the jammed “K” shelf, low to the ground. I imagine that small, overlooked paperback quietly — yet excitedly — anticipating my visit, whereupon I would delicately pluck it from between Kafka, Keats, Kerouac, and a misplaced Sartre. 

There was a time when Westsider’s future was jeopardized. I imagined it closing, and its memory dispersed amongst those New Yorkers who were fond of it like so many slips of yellowed paper, a test of the persistence of memory. I would think myself (like other regulars of this store) quite like Huysmans’s Des Esseintes, no longer illuminated by the beacon of some ancient hope; an old world eroding imperceptibly in little pieces, then all of a sudden a landslide, and it is irretrievably lost, transformed into a Murakami-like memory — once the door shuts, it’s gone forever. 

Yet it did not close. In 2019, at the brink of its closure, customers organized a crowdfunding campaign. Dorian Thornely, the owner of Westsider, was shocked when $50,000 was raised in four days, allowing the store to stay open for at least another year. It remains open, still, three years later. 

Thus, the store was saved from the seemingly inevitable doom brought about by the looming, menacing shadow of Amazon. The e-commerce giant takes losses on its books to increase its profit margins on other items likely to be ordered at the same time. They don’t have to pay rent after closing all their physical bookstores. They can deliver anything a customer could want straight to their door in two days for free. It is unsettlingly convenient. 

While Amazon’s books may seem like a great deal, many forget the hidden costs. Their two-day shipping options, as well as their single-use plastic packaging, are incredibly environmentally destructive. Amazon also throws away returns. The whole operation is reminiscent of the Gilded Age. Think Upton Sinclair but with plastic-encased, single-use, throwaway items instead of meatpacking. 

Unlike Amazon, Westsider is dynamic and full of surprises. “There’s something for everyone,” said Klein. Since their inventory is constantly changing, you might not find exactly what you were looking for. In the process of searching, though, you will find something else that piques your interest, perhaps something you’ve never heard of, perhaps a book from a favorite author of yours that you hadn’t stumbled upon yet. Or you can ask the quirky and well-read employees for a recommendation. Used books are expectedly much cheaper than new ones; prices usually range from four to nine dollars, making it very affordable to visit often. 

If you’re an avid reader or if you want to pick up reading for pleasure, be sure to drop by Westsider Rare and Used Bookstore on Broadway and 80th in Manhattan. You will find yourself immersed in a niche, distinctly New York world of art, culture, music, history, antiques, and great literature. 

Upon leaving, my godfather remarked that he could have spent the entire day there. He had been much more daring than I had, ascending the ladders to almost the last rung, staying particularly long in the John Updike section, full of huge and intimidating hardcovers. We both contemplated Italo Calvino, Rumi, and the ample selection of Trollope, Dickens (including my favorite, Bleak House). I left with three books. The total came to fourteen dollars and sixty-three cents.

My godfather and I are from different generations, yet, in this bookstore enveloped by mystique, both of us remained transfixed by the same Huysmans-esque longing for a return to the literary pleasures and intellectual experiences of any century but our own.

There was a time when Westsider’s future was jeopardized. I imagined it closing, and its memory dispersed amongst those New Yorkers who were fond of it like so many slips of yellowed paper, a test of the persistence of memory. I would think myself (like other regulars of this store) quite like Huysmans’s Des Esseintes, no longer illuminated by the beacon of some ancient hope; an old world eroding imperceptibly in little pieces, then all of a sudden a landslide, and it is irretrievably lost, transformed into a Murakami-like memory— once the door shuts, it’s gone forever.