I pointed out that it was easy, for example, to sell a copy of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt if the customer was familiar with Grieg’s incidental music for the play. Besides, reading and listening were closely allied activities. Anyone with literary tastes could or should have equivalent tastes in music. It was logical to sell a record at the same time you sold a book. Mr. Starrett thought this was a fine idea, and to my shocked surprise, wrote a paragraph about me in his column in the Book Section of the Chicago Sunday Tribune.
The Monday after the write-up appeared, I could hardly wait to get to the shop. I expected it would be flooded with people. It wasn’t. The phone didn’t even ring. I was disappointed, but still felt that hidden forces were working in the direction of my success. Mr. Starrett’s kind words were a turning point for me—I no longer felt anonymous.
Some people did see the write-up—intelligent, charming, good people, such as I had imagined gathering in my tiny premises. Among them were two young women who were commercial artists. One day they complained that there was nothing in the store to sit on, and after I had stumbled for excuses, they presented me with a bench decorated on either side with the inscriptions: “Words and Music by Stuart Brent,” and “Time Is Well Spent with Stuart Brent.” Now I felt sure things were looking up.
My next good genie and an important influence in my life was a short, bald gentleman with horn-rimmed spectacles who stood uncertainly in the doorway and asked, “Where’s the shop?”
He was Ben Kartman, then Associate Editor of Coronet Magazine, a man as kind and thoughtful as he is witty and urbane. He came in and looked around, studied the empty shelves, and shook his head. He shook his head often that afternoon. He wondered if I was seriously trying to be a bookseller—or was I just a dreamer with a hideout?
Surely I wanted to survive, didn’t I? Surely I wanted to sell books. Well, in that case, he assured me, I was going about it all wrong. For one thing, I had no sign. For another, I had no books in the windows. And most important of all, I had no stock. How can you do business without inventory? You can’t sell apples out of an empty barrel.
I took all his comments without a sound.
Then Ben said, “Sunday come out to the house. I’ve got a lot of review copies as well as old but saleable books. Even if you don’t sell them, put them on the shelves. The store will look more prosperous.”
He gave me several hundred books from his library, which we hauled to the store in his car. The Seven Stairs began to look like a real bookshop.
Ben Kartman also decided that I needed publicity. Not long afterward, my name appeared in a daily gossip column in one of the Chicago newspapers. Ben said that these daily puffers could be important to me, and this proved to be the case.