My Banquet Years

Floating on the surface of Hollywood in the '50s, my parents gave opulent dinner parties around an oval of dappled pink marble, under a Baccarat chandelier. "To obtain success and culture, you must display it before the fact," they said with conviction.

On one particular night, when an expected guest, who happened to be a movie star, had fallen ill, Mère, lamenting the loss of male-female symmetry, prevailed on me to fill in. She had failed to notice that her heretofore acquiescent child had metamorphosed into a teenager, one who held her and all denizens of Beverly Hills, and surrounding Los Angeles environs, in contempt.

During the soupe and salade courses, my mother monopolized the renowned German writer seated between us, passing herself off as a reader of Proust, though not a one of his tomes had ever lounged on her lace-covered night table. This isn't to say Mère didn't read. Two or three times a week, for a mere ten cents a day, she rented bestsellers—which were, I'm certain, of higher caliber than those of today—at Martindale's Bookstore in Beverly Hills. I remember her reading Howard Fast, Robert Graves and Marguerite Yourcenar. Alas, Martindale's had no children's rental library.

At the dinner table, I'd remained glumly mute. Then, abruptly, I yanked on the great writer's sleeve. "Why would you choose to live here when you could have gone to New York? Or Paris?" I challenged him.

Thomas Mann smiled wearily. "If you but explore these lush surroundings, you will find exactly what you need," he promised.

At 13 years of age I couldn't flee Los Angeles, but I could reconnoiter the region by bus. Thus, I eventually chanced upon Hollywood Boulevard's Pickwick Bookshop and its three enchanting, creaky wooden floors crammed with books and people. The clerks, and even some of the customers, appeared to be pleased by my youthful presence. We swapped—though mostly I received—intelligence about politics, concerts, and art exhibitions along with literary discoveries. "How about flying down to Cuba with me to harvest sugarcane?" a young poet urged. "Come, be a civil rights worker in Mississippi," another firebrand invited. Bookstores have always been the very best places to meet men. When I learned to drive, and my father awarded me his old car, my craving for browsing exceeded the shame I felt driving his azure-blue Cadillac convertible.

At Pickwick, and later at other cherished bookstores, certain paperbacks—for no reason I could comprehend—beckoned. For years I read, with no agenda, whatever glided into my hands. (In this manner I discovered Eric Erikson, as well as Honoré de Balzac and Peter De Vries—whose compound surnames, it now occurs to me, may have prompted the Fleur de Leigh of my novels.) In my 20s, I bought an extra-narrow stroller in order to push my sons through book-cluttered aisles. When my boys reached teenhood, despite my mother's condemnation, I became a bookseller myself.

Sublime Moments

I consider being handed the keys to Dutton's Brentwood Books one of the sublime moments in my life. During my tenure, the store has spread from one large room into four that fringe a courtyard where on warm nights authors give readings with exotic, tropical plants as their backdrop. Not to be left in the dark ages of bookselling, we added a café.

I'm convinced that Dutton's has contributed in making Los Angeles the biggest book market in the country. My coworkers and I delight in advising customers what to read on a plane, on safari or, in more than one case, while in minimum security prison. At our store, as at Pickwick, there is camaraderie, esprit de corps and a perpetual book powwow among customers and clerks.

Several years ago, a new customer asked for guidance. As always, I asked what he had so far read and loved. His answers demonstrated that he knew American literature far better than I. In fact, I pulled from the shelves the books he mentioned—including Time Will Darken It by William Maxwell—for myself. Eventually, it dawned on me that such a knowledgeable reader might have the writing bug. "I've written a few plays," he answered modestly.

"Anything I might have seen in Los Angeles?" I asked.

"Mmmm. American Buffalo," he said.

(I would like it to be known that I did sell David Mamet a few small press books.) One of my cohorts, rightfully implying he knew more about contemporary fiction than I, asked, "Why did Mamet ask you for help, not me?"

"I'm cuter," I replied.

Nowadays, booksellers make house calls. If my mother wished to be an American Mme de Staël, I am one. Some of the book groups I lead prepare dinners in homage to meals in novels. One group dresses accordingly, too. Discussions do get grittier with a few glasses of wine. The very first book group I encountered consisted entirely of female physicians, obviously A-students in their field, but who had no idea how to select a book to read for pleasure. This is typical.

Leading book groups, absorbing multiple interpretations, observing subtleties overlooked, has emboldened me as a writer. I damn well better satisfy myself because it is impossible to please every reader. And I must confess that I, like many others, have used our ongoing readings at Dutton's as writing seminars. Attendees are free to question the likes of Jane Smiley, Tim O'Brien or Margaret Atwood and usually receive cogent answers. Although, and maybe this stems from my Hollywood upbringing, I could disclose the names of some writers who would be better off hiring actors to do their readings, display a smidgen of charm, not smoke in the store and not drink while on book tour.

Is it an understatement to say that booksellers are not well paid? But they do have the privilege of borrowing any volume their heart desires. At no charge! Thus, I have spent scintillating evenings with F. Scott Fitzgerald without having to watch him get soused. I've had countless rewarding nights in bed with Proust without listening to him grouse. I don't need to wine and dine Thomas Mann to know him at his best. My bookselling years have been my banquet years. Books everlastingly provide delicious conversation.