Mr. Adler looked about and said, “Do you have a book for a Lost Woman?”
I said, “Yes,” and handed him a copy of Ferdinand Lundberg’s new book, Modern Woman: The Lost Sex. He gave it to Miss Hepburn, saying, “Here, Katie, this is for you.”
Without a pause, she turned and said, “Do you have a good book for a Lost Jew?”
“Yes,” I said, and produced a Sholem Asch volume.
She gave it to Mr. Adler, saying, “Here, Luther, this is for you.”
They bought many books that morning, and I was swept away in wonder and exhilaration at the possibility of bringing happiness to Lost Women, Lost Jews, the Beautiful and the Great, alike in their needs with all of us for the strength and joy of the spirit. It was wonderful—but it was awful when I had to take their money.
A world very much like that of my dreams began to open up. People came. Authors began to congregate around the fireplace. The shop was visited by newspaper writers like Martha King, of the Chicago Sun-Times, who wrote a charming article, for which I was deeply grateful. I was beginning to do business, although still without a cash register. The rent was paid promptly, and McClurg’s permitted me to have a charge account. One or two Eastern publishers even let me have some books on open account. And the man from Columbia Records kept dropping by, leading me to believe that they might be thinking about me in spite of their presumed obligations to Lyon and Healy.
Why did people come, often far out of their way and at considerable inconvenience? I was too busy to reflect upon the matter at the time. There was nothing there but the books and me—and a great deal of talk. But some need must have been filled—by moving people to take notice of themselves, forcing them to think about what they were reading or what they were listening to. We talked a lot of small talk, too, but it was small talk with heart in it. And the effect was contagious. Those who came told others and they came too.
The place acquired a life of its own, which will be the subject of many of the following pages. But that life, real and wonderful as it was, could not endure. Perhaps it is worth writing about because it is not a success story—and what came after has its meaning in the reflected tenderness and flickering hope those years taught one to cherish.
This is not merely a sentimental record. It has no point unless seen against the background of the cultural poverty of our society—and the apparent economic impossibility of alleviating that poverty through commercial channels such as the publication and distribution of books.