Savouring magic of the local bookshop

For some, this is simply nostalgia - a longing for the greener grass that grows just over the generational fences. And, along with this, fear of the new; of screens, buttons, wireless downloads. For the record, I own a Kindle, and I am a happy addict of its digital drugs. For writers and readers, the new publishing model might be unfamiliar and unpredictable, but it is no simple danger to literature and the written word. eBooks are still books; still have their profundity and shallowness; lyricism and clumsiness.

Nonetheless, the merits of digital publishing and distribution take nothing from those of the humble bookshop. And its virtues are worth defending.

First, good bookshop employees are immeasurably important. Obviously some chain bookstores are staffed by sullen automatons, for whom books are no different to chewing gum, glossy magazines or a grandé latté hazelnut with sprinkles. But the best bookshops - usually independent - are often owned, managed and staffed by readers. They combine erudition, passion for the written word, and intense curiosity.

Just recently I visited, for the first time, Embiggen Books in Melbourne, with its elegant and ample collection of science literature. The staff member's attitude to this collection was noteworthy: an intimate custodianship. If I wanted a Darwin biography, it mattered to her which I chose, and why I chose it: which book was definitive, concise or humane.

This is often how ideas spread and grow: not simply in books or journals, but in conversations that wed impressions to situations, advice to ambitions. Stacked shelves provide the occasion, but enthusiastic, intelligent and well-read staff make a bookshop an education.

Bookshops also have a singular beauty. Books do, as the saying goes, furnish a room. The boiled lolly bright colours of contemporary paperbacks; the muted buckram, leather and gold of Victorian or Edwardian spines; the combination of neat straight verticals and variegated short horizontals; the covers with their sombre, sexy or sweet designs. They invite and reward attention.

Yes, this is merely an aesthetic trait, but we must be careful with this ''merely''. Aesthetic experience is not necessary for living, but it is life-enhancing. It encourages reflection, evokes emotions, enriches perception. It is a civilised pleasure.

Third, the best bookshops are situated - they have a local character. Most international chains have stores in specific sites, but they are not there in any human way. They are proudly standardised: the same homogenous stock, layout, uniforms, decorations. This affords a certain reliability and predictability: we know which bestsellers will be on which spinning stands, all over the English-speaking world. But local bookshops provide a greater familiarity with local authors.

When my first book was published, for example, Readings Books boldly spruiked it as a local publication. They introduced it to customers who would otherwise have passed it by - and who later told me so.

Likewise for my own reading: through the bookshop's newsletters, signs and staff ministrations, I have been introduced to many novelists, poets, essayists from my city, state and country. They localised me.

In this, bookshops are not just a source of information. They provide a physical space for literary introductions: on an impromptu stage, by the shelves, behind the counter.

Bookshops can also be places of creative idleness. Like the café or library, they promote public reverie and curious wandering. Without the pragmatic instantaneity of online click-and-buy, bookshops allow for moments of uncommitted, unhurried browsing.

Again, none of this means we should give up ebooks and internet shopping; none of this requires a war between paper and pixels. It is merely a defence of the literary palate that seeks a certain satiation in shelves and stacks.

Bon appétit, booklovers.

Damon Young is a philosopher and the author of Distraction.

damonyoung.com.au