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| Roger Carlson at Bookman's Alley (photo by Marc Perlish) |
Roger Carlson died earlier this week, at age 89. For decades he ran Bookman's Alley, an oasis of used books tucked in the alley behind Sherman Avenue in Evanston. He was an amused, twinkling presence, and I loved his store, and found some of my favorite books there.
Maureen O'Donnell gave him a fine send off.
I wrote about him a number of times, first in the Daily Northwestern, most recently when I had a signing at the new bookstore in the old Bookman's Alley space in September. This story ran over 30 years ago, and captures a little of his spirit, I hope. Then again, it should: it's very long. That's how we did it in those days. Ironic, now that the internet allows stories to run as long as we please, we keep them very short, because attention spans have shrunk, stunted by the siren call of the infinite variety awaiting us.
Notice toward the end how the 26-year-old me handled the fact that Mr. Carlson—as I always called him—was an alcoholic, who began the store as a way to get himself away from the temptations of the magazine ad industry and start life anew. I suppose I thought I was being subtle.
A young couple once wandered into Bookman's Alley and spent a half
hour or so looking at the shelves filled with old books, walls covered
with art and etchings, and displays of antiques, curios and
collectibles. On their way out, they stopped by the cluttered desk of
owner Roger Carlson and asked if he would ever consider selling any of
his books.
"They must have thought I was some low-rent museum run by the city
of Evanston," laughed Carlson.
Carlson does indeed sell his books, though it's easy to see how
the store could be mistaken for something else. Part of the confusion
comes from its unusual location. Bookman's Alley is not just a colorful
name designed to evoke images of Paris bookstalls. The store actually
is in an alley, off Sherman Avenue just north of Evanston's shuttered
Varsity Theater. Carlson puts out a green flag in the alley to let
people know when the store is open.
Another reason Bookman's Alley might be mistaken for something
else is its decidedly unstorelike atmosphere. Unlike most bookstores,
Bookman's Alley has plenty of places to sit: 23 chairs, four couches
and three stools, to be exact, not counting the stacks of folding
chairs to handle the excess crowd when Carlson hosts occasional live
musical events—usually string quartets or ensembles from Northwestern
University's music school. Bowls of gumdrops and mints are set out for
those who might be taking their lunch hour to pore over "many a quaint
and curious volume of forgotten lore," to quote Edgar Allan Poe.
The ambience is no accident nor an act of eccentricity, but part
of a carefully thought-out plan.
"It makes me feel comfortable; I like to work in attractive
circumstances. I'm doing it quite consciously because I want people who
are in here to feel comfortable. I want them to know that I enjoy their
being in here. I don't want them to feel pressured. I want this to be
an oasis for them. The end product of all this benevolence is I want to
make a living and that requires some of them sometimes to buy books."
The bookstore's location is the result of a compromise between
Carlson's vision of what a bookstore should be and his severely
restricted financial situation when he opened the store six years ago.
"I wanted a lot of space. I envisioned using space essentially in
the way I've done it - an open space, uncrowded, with lots of
opportunity for people to sit down and think about things. I had, in
essence, no money; that made it certain I had to find a garage or
warehouse building where the rent was in my reach."
What Carlson found was an old, windowless warehouse that was,
ironically, completely isolated and within a half block of Evanston's
central business district.
"There are disadvantages to the location. The kind of person who
needs to leave a trail of birdseed to get home has trouble finding this
place and, beyond that, being in an alley is not good in a time when
people have fears. Alleys do not conjure up the best associations. I
once thought of putting an insurance machine at the entrance of the
alley, for the small percentage of persons reluctant to enter an
alley."
Interspersed among the rows of books is a Victorian clutter of antiques, collectibles and near-junk plucked
from Carlson's collection and cleverly tied in with the books'
subjects. Near the shelf marked "Adventure Books" is a snowshoe, a
harpoon, an antique model of a kayak, an Eskimo doll, a compass and a
framed map from a Byrd Antarctic expedition. In the "Old West" section
is a full-sized saddle resting on a sawhorse, along with chaps and
several Stetsons hanging from hooks. An old map of Africa and a zebra
skin watch over the African books. A detailed model of a three-masted
ship, a wooden pulley and an iron double pulley act as bookends on
shelves devoted to ships. An ancient Corona portable typewriter holds
up books on the Paris Herald, Villard and Chicago press. Tucked in
among books in the crafts section is a miniature loom.
Not all the tableaus are connected to books. Some are just
pleasant to look at. Near the blue piano is a small oval empire table.
On the table is a silverplate Champagne cooler, filled with fresh-cut
flowers, a Japanese enamel bowl, a carved wooden Mexican statuette and
an eight-volume set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,
published in 1825.
Carlson says he does not expend any particularly great effort
assembling his little displays. "They just sort of happen. They're constructed of things either that I was seemingly born with or
that I ran into at estate sales or auctions."
Carlson's personal opinions also manifest themselves in displays.
For years, while James Watt was secretary of the U.S. Department of
Interior, Carlson hung a sign that announced the expected arrival of
Watt's The Endangered Species Cookbook. At the back of the store he
posts a "Best Seller's List." It is not the standard list made up of
what Carlson sneeringly refers to as "all these popular things on how
to make money and analyze yourself." Rather, it is a list of authors
Carlson would like to see as best sellers among today's public, names
like Hemingway, Wodehouse, Jung, Dickens, Twain, Thoreau, Churchill,
Mann, Joyce and Dinesen.
With all the interesting distractions in Bookman's Alley, it would be
a mistake to overlook the books—Carlson estimates he has around
18,000. The vast majority are hardback, with an emphasis on American
history and 20th century literature. Carlson also carries a good
selection of rare books, autographed volumes and first editions. A
glass case displays rarities like a signed 1874 copy of Mark Twain's
The Innocents at Home and an 1850 first edition of Hawthorne's The
Scarlet Letter. But most of the books fall into the $5 to $10 range,
with the most expensive item being a five-volume set of The History of
England, published in 1732, selling for $1,200. The cheapest is a bin
of books offered free for the taking.
Adding to the ambience at Bookman's Alley is Carlson himself: a
tall, jovial gray-haired man of 58 with an impish grin and twinkling
eyes. Except for infrequent occasions—a wedding or an emergency—Carlson is there, usually sitting on a comfortable chair at the front
of the store, reading a book.
"I'm afraid I tend to think I run the place better than anyone I
could hire. That's not entirely ego. I know where everything is since I
bought it and priced it and shelved it. I have 80 classifications, and
sometimes a book could fall into several categories. I know where
something belongs. If I'm not here and a person inquires about
something, he may well walk out empty-handed, even though the book is
here. I would have been able to find it. I have some good friends who
play guest host. But I enjoy it enough I don't feel the need for a day
off."
Carlson has been a fan of books for as long as he can remember. As
a child he would go to his room at night and, tossing a carpet in front
of the door to prevent the light from shining underneath, regularly
read until 4 or 5 in the morning.
Despite his love of books, Carlson did not set out to be a
bookseller. His dream was to be a writer, but when he found he lacked
the ability, he drifted into advertising sales, a profession that
didn't suit him, and which he languished in for years. "It didn't start
out being terrible. But it got that way."
In the late '70s, Carlson took a sobering look at himself, and
decided to change his life as an ad salesman. He always had enjoyed
reading and collecting books, and began selling them from his home. "I
sold by mail and by appointment, rare books and collectible things.
But it was clear to me quickly it was no way for me to make a living.
You have to spend your day selling books and I didn't want to sell
books—I wanted to read them—so I knew I had to have a shop."
When Carlson first opened his store, he had so little money that
he was forced to stock the shelves with several thousand books from his
own collection. Carlson takes a pragmatic view of the loss. "It was
something I was able to face without any particular problems because I
was so close to the wall. It was really sell or die. I could comfort
myself with the thought that at least I had the chance to see the books
and handle the books."
Ironically, though he is able to part with first editions of
Hemingway and signed copies of Fitzgerald without regret, Carlson does
wish he held onto a particular volume —a book by Willard Schultz.
"It wasn't especially valuable, but the inscription was so great.
He was a white man who was raised by the Indians in Montana, I think.
This was a book published in the '20s and his inscription was, `So few
of us left who lived upon the buffalo.' I thought that was a very sad
inscription. I only sold the book for $50 or $60, but it seemed to have
a meaning far greater than its monetary value. But at the time I needed
the $50."
Nowadays, things are not quite so tight for Carlson. Business is
good, and a poster and framing store has moved into the other building
sharing his alley. Carlson can do what he loves most, read books,
supported by his friends who stop by to chat, browse, rest, ponder and,
occasionally, buy books.
"A lot of really interesting people come into bookshops. A
bookshop can be a nice kind of social center, if that's the way you
want to operate, and I do."
—Originally published in the Sun-Times, Aug. 17, 1986
