Perhaps my starry-night runs over the Brooklyn Bridge were so vivid because my senses were heightened as I went over the bridge. New York back then was seen, and no doubt was, a much more dangerous place than now. The bridge after dark was reputed to be an unsafe place, and the only patrol I ever saw on it in those days was a sometimes glimpse of a lone cop on a motor scooter. He seemed unlikely to prevent a mugging or assault except perhaps if it was going to be attempted within a hundred yards of him. The walkway always had some people on it during the day, but after dark the walkway was mainly deserted, and this largely unpeopled space led to me being extra alert. Over the course of my running days, the city generally became safer, and more and more people were on the bridge at all times. After years of feeling a certain daring in running over it at night, the fear, never entirely gone, waned. I still found the winter runs on clear nights thrilling, but, perhaps because I now had seen the above-and-below stars many times, but perhaps also because my senses were not as alert as they had once been, the sight, still spectacular, was less so.

Even during New York’s bad days, I did not feel afraid running over the bridge during the day when it had a steady stream of bike riders and pedestrians. But there was one exception. A hundred yards on to the bridge, I could feel someone on a bike following me. I slowed up; he slowed up. I sped up; he sped up. I went one way around a pillar; he went the other. I stopped out of his sight at one pillar and hoped that he would get in front of me. He did not emerge. I resumed my running; he fell in behind me. My heart was racing from more than the running. At the end of the path, he finally came up alongside me and said that he appreciated my running. He had decided that I was a good runner and wanted to see if he could keep up with me, especially on the uphill part. I thought it a bit bizarre, but I was relieved and bid him a good rest of the day.

The walkway physically changed in the years that I regularly ran the Brooklyn Bridge. In the beginning, the gradient was less steep than now because it was punctuated by a dozen or so steps three or four times in the mile. This didn’t make much of a difference to runners and walkers, but it meant that bikers had to get off and carry the bicycle up or down the steps. It meant that bikers seldom got a head of steam, and I thought that kept everything safer. The walkway, however, was renovated to remove the stairs. That concerned me because I thought that bikes would go too fast once they had an uninterrupted half-mile downhill.

The danger now, however, does not come from the bikers as much as from the pedestrians. Back when I ran over the bridge, few tourists were on it. The walkway was primarily used by a certain type of a dedicated New Yorker. Times have changed as the walkway has become a tourist destination. This has brought a group of vendors who mostly congregate on the Manhattan edge of the bridge. The number of the tourist pedestrians has increased so that walking across the bridge is like walking on a crowded sidewalk. The walkway has a line painted down its middle, and those on foot are supposed to be on one side and bike riders on the other. The number of pedestrians, however, has become so large that they almost always spill over onto the bike lane, and, of course, the tourists are gawking, mostly looking for pictures to take. As they move to get the right background for their selfie (would the world really be worse off if the selfie stick had never been invented?), they often do not pay close attention to where they stand and move into the path of a bike. I have yet to see a collision, but I have seen many close calls. When I ran the bridge, I could run freely without having my strides impeded by others. Today that is impossible.

After I gave up running, I often rode a bike over the Brooklyn Bridge, and that could be done safely. That is no longer true, and savvy bike riders now head to the Manhattan Bridge. That bridge’s two walkways are now open. I don’t like them much. They are narrow and next to the road and subway tracks that go over the bridge, and I find that jarring, but one of the walkways is designated just for bikes, and it is a much safer way for the riders to cross the East River than the Brooklyn Bridge.

The renovation of the walkway that eliminated the steps got me some brief, and quite limited, fame. There was a controversy about how the work was to be undertaken. The city planned to close the walkway during the renovations. I then worked in lower Manhattan, and regularly commuted by running over the bridge. One day, I was stopped on the walkway near Manhattan and asked to sign a petition to keep the walkway open during the work. Unbeknownst to me, a Post or Daily News photographer snapped my picture, and that photograph later appeared accompanying the newspaper story. I did not regularly read that newspaper and had not seen the picture, but the next day, I went into Perry’s, the grocery store a couple of blocks from my home where I often shopped in my running clothes. Stewart, the nice guy who ran the store, said that he had seen my picture in the paper. I said that I did not know what he was talking about, and he pulled out the paper from behind the counter. He was right. I was in the picture. As far as I know, Stewart was the only person who saw that picture and recognized me.

I started running by doing it after work, but soon I was also running at lunch a few times a week. At first, I ran around a small park near my downtown Brooklyn office, but then I wanted to go further. I started to run over the nearby Brooklyn Bridge, turn around, and run back. I had walked over the bridge a few times before, but this began what would be many, many more trips over the bridge. As time went on, I frequently ran between Brooklyn and Manhattan, and in those days, the Manhattan Bridge walkway was not open, and the Brooklyn Bridge was often the most convenient route for me. I am not sure what the total number of trips were, but I am confident I ran over it more than a thousand times.

I fell in love with the Brooklyn Bridge. Its distance was satisfying. It is almost exactly a mile from the Brooklyn steps to the walkway to the Manhattan terminus of the bridge. The upward sweep was a bit of a running challenge, but not too much so, and going downwards was not too steep to be excessively hard on my knees. It was also pleasing because the walkway is on a higher level than the roadway. I would be aware of the cars and when there was bad traffic on the bridge, try to race them across the span, but the elevated walkway kept me separate from the traffic. Mostly, however, it was satisfying to run the Brooklyn Bridge because of its beauty and the sights I could see.

The bridge’s Gothic arches are iconic for good reason and have captured the imaginations and talents of artists, including, of course, those of Georgia O’Keefe’s. Those stone arches, however, did more than just define the bridge. Because of the bridge’s incline, the arches were not only in front of me, but also above me. They seemed to represent a symbolic goal. From the Brooklyn side, they framed the Manhattan skyline through their openings. They made me want to reach Manhattan, be a part of Manhattan. That skyline, however, cannot be contained in the frame of the arches. It extends above and around those pillars. New York can be reached; it can be entered, but it can never be encompassed. There is always more.

I especially loved running the bridge towards Manhattan after a light rain. The walkway consisted of wooden beams, and when wet, those planks would reflect the arches. The arches were underfoot and in front of and above me all at the same time.

Running to Manhattan in the early morning on a clear day brought a different kind of light. I would be running west and the rising sun would be behind me. The windows of the Manhattan skyline would catch the sun and be aglow. The reflected oranges and yellows and reds made it seem as if a light show were being performed.

It seldom seemed as exciting running over the bridge towards Brooklyn. Brooklyn was home, but Manhattan had the better skyline. Even so, sometimes the run to Brooklyn, too, brought spectacular sights. There is a period in the spring and fall when the sun, as viewed from the bridge, sets directly behind the Statue of Liberty. When I would see that, I would always stop and soak up the sight. With the sun low on the horizon, the sun appeared unnaturally large and almost looked as if it were attached to the Statue. I never found a spot off the bridge where I could observe this phenomenon, and when I saw it, I was always grateful that I had taken up running.

The bookend to this was seeing a full moon rising over Brooklyn as I ran home with an early night run. A rising full moon has always been spectacular to me, but it was even more so from the elevation of the bridge walkway.

Another night scene was more memorable to me. Sometimes I ran over the bridge on a cold, clear winter’s night–the kind of night when everything in the sky is extra crisp, and although stars are not really a New York City feature, where even the stars stood out. The bridge’s wooden-slatted walkway had gaps between the boards. Through them I could see down to the East River. On these nights, the stars above stood out as if they could be touched, but looking down in the cold air, crisp images of lights could be seen reflected by the water. Those lights may only have been from buildings or vehicles, but they seemed to be the reflected stars. It felt as if the stars were above and below me, and I was running in their midst.

My running days are long gone, but my attraction for the Brooklyn Bridge has not ended. On occasion, I walk over it. This is now a bit of a struggle, and I am often amazed that it once was a nearly effortless run. Still, almost every time I go over the Brooklyn Bridge, I still find a sight that amazes or inspires me. As a result, my living room is filled with images of the bridge. I have an oil painting; a numbered print; photographs; a reproduced image I saw oat a New York Public Library exhibit; Christmas cards; and more, all depicting the Brooklyn Bridge.  (To be continued.)

When you go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, do you wash your hands before going back to bed?

The “pro-life” activist said that we must protect the rights of all human beings, the born and the unborn. I wondered why she stopped there in her personal definition of “human being.” Why not all human beings, the born, the unborn, and the dead? If she believes in eternal life, as I assume she does, shouldn’t the deceased count, too, if we are going to redefine what is a human being?

“As was often the case when an independent woman was wronged, the media began judging the victim.” Patricia M. Salmon, Staten Island Slayings: Murderers & Mysteries of the Forgotten Borough.

A notice in the elevator car of a friend’s building informed the residents that garbage must be properly disposed of or else there could be “an infestation of unwanted vermin.” I wondered what vermin were wanted.

A man promises his wife that he will be home at six and will bring a pizza and a salad for dinner. He arrives at six but does not have a pizza and a salad. Or he arrives at nine with a pizza and a salad. Has he kept his promise? If a candidate promises to build a wall on our southern border that will be paid for by Mexico, has he kept his promise by seeking American taxpayer money from Congress to build part of a wall on our southern border? (How many of you remember Trump at campaign rallies saying that he would build a “beautiful” wall on the whole border and then saying, “And who is going to pay for it?” with the crowd enthusiastically shouting, “Mexico!”)

I had forgotten the German-Turkish-American server’s name. She feigned, I think, that she was upset. I said, referring to the Mexican-American server/busboy standing next to her, “I have known him longer, and I forget his name.” She replied, “We call him Doughnut.” I looked at him and said, “Why is that?” He just smiled, and she explained. “He went to a house of pleasure, and instead of giving out dollar bills, he handed out doughnuts.” The Colombian-American bartender said that it was a strip club near Costco. The Mexican-American server/busboy had bought the doughnuts at a fancy neighborhood shop, and he had given them out to the strippers. He would not tell me what kind the doughnuts were—I thought that they should have been Boston cream–but his English is limited, and he might not have understood the question. A few minutes later, however, he looked at me with his always sweet smile and said, “Now I am a VIP.”

“Helen Twombley liked that word [duckish]; it meant the time between sunset and dark.” Howard Norman, The Bird Artist.

Another friend–smart, educated, well-read—announced one day that he was sick and tired of political correctness. Someone else at the lunch table asked what he meant by that term. He did not define it but instead gave as an example Michelle Obama’s speech in which she noted that she then lived in the White House, an edifice that had been built by slaves. Asked by another at the table why this bothered him, he indicated that he was tired of those who feel slighted, abused, or oppressed by what had happened to other people centuries ago. Someone said to the friend, “I watched that speech, and she was saying something else.” He explained that Obama’s statement was not a lament but was instead lauding how far the country had come in racial relations. It turned out that the friend who had denounced political correctness had, in fact, not watched the speech. He had only seen the excerpt on TV news. He was urged to watch or read the whole speech to better understand the context of the objected-to phrase. I am reasonably confident he never did that, for several months later I heard him repeat Michelle Obama’s comment as something that bothered him for its political correctness.

His use of “political correctness” was different from my use of the term. For me, it was a statement by someone who was trying to cut off a topic’s discussion. For him, it meant something that others might discuss, but once he labeled the view “politically correct,” he did not have to, indeed would not, listen to the discussion. Other uses of the term in this fashion can easily be found. For example, not too long ago President Trump labeled the diversity visa program as being “politically correct.” That label meant that others could discuss the strengths and weakness of that program, but he was not going to be part of any such debate. Because the program was “politically correct,” the President would not listen to any debate about it.

“Political correctness” is used in yet another way—not just to denigrate a viewpoint or an individual but to simultaneously self-aggrandize the labeler.  Assume that I support allowing transgender people equal opportunities in the military. Someone might respond, “You are just being politically correct.” That response is, of course, dismissive of my position; it is not a prelude for reasoned debate. But it does more than that. It challenges my integrity by implying that I have adopted my opinion not by reasoned consideration but by simply accepting a herd position. In addition, the labeler is also saying that he has the courage, unlike me, not to follow the crowd but to think for himself which has led him to the courageous, anti-politically correct position. His label is an ad hominem attack on me and also a glorification of himself and, of course, is meant to terminate any discussion.

It is almost always non-conservative positions that get the PC tag, but if political correctness is really an attempt to remove topics from discussion, conservatives, too, can be very politically correct. We can see it when states and federal agencies prohibit or restrict of the term “man-made climate change” because they don’t want that topic to be discussed.

We can see it with gun control. The frequent response to those who wish to restrict sales of guns or their accessories is, “That would violate the Second Amendment.” The responders are really announcing that they will not discuss the wisdom of the proposed rules or even discuss any attempt to collect data about the proposals. The Second-Amendment cry is meant to end the discussion.

Playing that Second Amendment card is also meant to eliminate any discussion of the Second Amendment’s reach. Early in 2017 Congress passed and President Trump signed a bill that made it easier for mentally ill people to buy guns. When Paul Ryan was asked after the Las Vegas shootings whether this was a “mistake,” Ryan insisted that people’s rights were being infringed and protecting their rights was “very important.” End of discussion. There will not only be no discussion of whether expanding the ability of mentally ill people to buy guns is wise, there will be no discussion of whether the Second Amendment bars all restrictions on the mentally ill from buying and possessing guns.

When restrictions are proposed on semi-automatic weapons, the number of guns a person may buy, the kind of ammunition that can be sold, and so on, conservatives will not debate the wisdom of the proposals and will cry “Second Amendment” as a justification for the refusal to consider the proposals. They will not, however, debate the reach of the Constitutional provision. They act as if the Second Amendment was crystal clear and therefore need not be debated, when, in fact, its language is murky, and the Supreme Court has not authoritatively addressed many gun control issues but has implied that many gun restrictions would be constitutional.

This use of the Second Amendment to prevent debate on gun control is political correctness on the right. Conservatives in Congress passed a law a generation ago that restricts federal funding for studies about gun violence. What could be better evidence of political correctness that is meant to shut out reasoned debate than to prevent more information about the issue? To paraphrase the bandits in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, “We don’t need no stinkin’ data.”

I am generally opposed to political correctness which seeks to mandate what others must believe and eliminate discussion on topics. I lack the arrogance to be positive that I have found the ‘truth’ on most things. As I look backward I see that the ‘truth’ has evolved on many, many topics. If it has evolved, that evolution has probably not ended. The evolution, however, can continue most efficiently only when the topics are not off limits but instead can be regularly probed with reasoned debate and with the consideration of more information and experiences about the topic. And there is almost always more data to be had about any important topic. Furthermore, telling others what to believe is not a way to convince them. As John Morley, the British statesman, has been quoted as saying, “You have not converted a man because you have silenced him.”

A few comments can be placed out of bounds because they cannot advance a topic’s consideration. Racial and ethnic slurs or dismissive labeling of someone else’s position as racist, for example, do not further a reasoned discussion and should be prevented.

The classroom observer wanted my friend to dictate the right outcome to any discussion on the legality or morality of torture, but is it so clear that torture is always so far out of bounds that it should not be discussed? See if you can come with examples where you say, “Maybe, maybe.” But if you can imagine situations where torture might be appropriately used, could you find a way to limit torture to just those circumstances or will torture inevitably spread if any use of it is allowed? If it would spread, does that mean all torture should be forbidden? Can’t there be—shouldn’t there be—debates on this topic? Are your answers affected by the fact that at least the issue of what constitutes torture has led to important debates in Israel and even to legal decisions by that country’s Supreme Court? Shouldn’t there be debates elsewhere on the topic?

The classroom observer tried to cinch her conclusion about how my friend should have handled the torture discussion by citing comments about women scientists. She was presumably referring to the comments by Larry Summers, who was president of Harvard when he made the comments. Summers was addressing the issue of the underrepresentation of women in the sciences on the faculties of elite universities. He addressed the topic precisely because this was one that many thought should be discussed. He offered tentative hypotheses as to why there was this underrepresentation of women on the faculties. In his comments, however, he never said that women did not have the ability to be outstanding scientists. He did say that the elite universities were trying to hire in the very top echelons of these professions—the one in five thousand—and at those levels, women were underrepresented. Summers then gave a number of reasons for this low representation and suggested that those possible reasons interplayed with each other.

Summers did not give his ideas as authoritative, irrebuttable pronouncements. He was not trying to cut off debate. Instead, he ended his speech with suggestions for the collection of data that could aid further understanding of the situation. In other words, he was trying to find a way to further the discussion.

Go look at his comments. You can find them online. There is a lot to discuss in them. If you care about women in science—and I put myself in this category since the spouse is a woman and was a scientist—Summers’ speech is provoking on many levels. Mischaracterizing his comments as saying that women don’t have the innate ability to be high-level scientists and suggesting that such a statement is “out of bounds” cuts off discussion and is therefore political correctness at is worst. If we cut off discussion of the topic and do not seek more information about it, as political correctness would have us do, we will not get closer to the “truth.”

For me, as I have said, political correctness is the attempt to arbitrarily end discussions about topics that are discussable or could be advanced with more data and research. Others who are oppose political correctness, however, use that term in other ways. (To be continued.)

A friend, a distinguished lawyer who is now retired from his firm, teaches at a local college. The students are not from the privileged classes and are often the first in their families to have attended college. Many are immigrants or have parents who were born abroad or are members of a disadvantaged American minority.

The friend is teaching a course that probes the concept of justice. The class had explored that difficult biblical text about the sins of the fathers. His students had examined the provisions that make torture illegal under international law and the American statute that expressly forbids torture abroad but does not address its legality within the United States. The class discussed whether torture, even in the face of these legal prohibitions, could ever be justified, and, of course, as discussions of torture inevitably do, the ticking bomb hypothetical came up: You know that a bomb will soon explode in a place that will kill many people. You have in custody someone who has the code to defuse the bomb, but he will not divulge it. Would you, should you, torture that bomber to save the lives at the expected explosion site?

One student said it did not matter whether torture under these circumstances was legal or not because the torture would be useless. If the potential torture subject was committed to the cause of the bombing, he would either completely resist the torture, which under the scenario would not be long, or provide false information that would buy enough time for the bomb to explode. After the class had discussed this position for a while, another student, who had hardly ever talked in class and was recently arrived from China, quietly said, “If you want to get the information, don’t torture the bomber; torture his family.” This led to a spirited give-and-take with references back to the class’s discussion of international law and the sins of the father. The period ended with the students still engaged in debate.

The friend was pleased with the class. The students had confronted the material in thoughtful ways. The friend was pleased not only that the newly-arrived Chinese student had spoken up, but that he had given a perspective not before considered by others that may have derived from his cultural background or experience. This seemed to be the point to the diversity often ballyhooed in academia. Since the class had gone so well, the friend was especially pleased that this was the day that a member of the fulltime faculty, who would report to the Dean about the part-time teacher, was there to observe his class.

The friend respected the observer, who had been born in Algeria and had done human rights work in various countries requiring tact, insight, and courage. The friend, however, was taken aback when she castigated him. “You should not have let the class leave without making it clear that torture under all circumstances is wrong.” The friend replied that he did not think it was the job of a liberal arts teacher to tell students the “truth,” but she maintained, “Torture is against international law and is wrong, and it is your duty as a teacher to tell the students that.”

When the friend told me about what happened, he was still upset by it, even though it was days later. I said that this sounds like a form of political correctness, but usually, I continued, political correctness seems to be about identity politics. He smiled and said, “To try to convince me that what I had done was not right, she said that surely I would have corrected any student who said what that college president had said, ‘Women don’t have the innate abilities to be good scientists.’” This made me think more about political correctness.

In talking with the friend, I had used “political correctness” as an epithet. The PC term is always a denigration. No one ever says “I have adopted my opinion because it is the politically correct one” or says unironically, “I agree with you because what you said is so politically correct.” But the term does not have a simple, single meaning.

For me, the classroom observer was inappropriate because of her dogmatism. She was positive of the only correct conclusion to the debate and therefore, felt that this certitude had to be communicated to the students. She was in essence saying that any reasoned debate had to lead to this conclusion and that outcome should be made clear.

The problem with the observer’s stance, however, is that there is only a small step from it to saying that there is no point to a reasoned debate on a topic. If the conclusion is so obvious, then there is really no need to discuss the topic at all. Instead, just present the patent outcome. Indeed, the topic should apparently not be discussed at all if there is any chance that some will come to the “wrong” conclusion. In this view, “political correctness” is an assertion that seeks to cut off debate because the topic is outside the bounds of any reasoned discussion. (To be continued.)

“And all the hilltops soft and glowing

With winter’s brilliant rug of snow—

The world all fresh and white below.”

Alexander Pushkin (James E. Falen, translator) Eugene Onegin

A friend floated the theory that a male always wears a style of underwear different from that of his father. Raised with a boxer-wearing father, the son wears jockeys. If the father wears tighty-whities, the son wears boxer briefs. And so on. There is a lot of merit in this theory. This is another reason that a fatherless family has problems. They boys don’t know what underwear to put on.

She was part of Celtic Woman, which I am only aware of from PBS fundraising programming. Attractive, strapless dress, playing the violin, sort of dancing but certainly moving as she played, with beautiful, flowing red tresses. And I thought, “Does anyone ever say ‘tress’?”

I am of the belief that many Irish songs consist of but a few bars that are incessantly repeated. The song only ends when the musicians need a break.

Several corporations announced one-time $1,000 bonuses for their workers after the tax cut bill. This gave the corporations good publicity and gained them credit with the President. But the tax cut had not yet taken effect, so, apparently these companies had this money just lying around even before the tax cut. So why weren’t the bonuses given before? And the corporate tax cuts, unlike the individual ones, are permanent. Why, then, just a one-time bonus? If that corporate tax cut is going to be so good for workers, why haven’t the wages been raised permanently?

If it is unpatriotic to take a knee during the national anthem to bring attention to police violence against others (a selfless act), isn’t it unpatriotic for the President, promoting his own self-interest, to bash the FBI, a law enforcement agency?

Has the TV been on too long when you find yourself watching pickleball on an obscure sports channel?

At 6PM on Christmas day, the daughter and I were walking home from a movie when a woman stopped and asked us if she was walking in the right direction for the supermarket. We said, “Yes.” I asked her what she was looking for and she replied, “Oatmeal.” Both the daughter and I pointed across the street to a neighborhood store that was open and said, “They must have oatmeal.” “Not the kind I want,” she said. Even though she knew that the supermarket may not have been open, she headed off for it. It seemed like an unlikely search for a Christmas night.

Lose weight. (Oh, as if you haven’t made this self-indulgent, unlikely-to-be-fulfilled resolution in the past.)

Play better golf. (Oh, as if many of you haven’t made this self-indulgent, unlikely-to-be-fulfilled resolution in the past.)

Build a wider readership. (Got any ideas?)

Remember more of what I have read. (Got any ideas on how to do that?)

Pare down my possessions. (Then I can justify buying more stuff.)

Get better gas mileage. (Yes, self-indulgent, but good for the rest of you, too.)

Figure out what gun Jesus will carry if (when) He returns.

Not re-use dental floss too often.

Watch less football even if Aaron Rodgers is playing.

Hook up my backyard intensive burner that I bought to fry chicken. (But I first will have to get over my fear of it.)

Not complain about the slings and arrows of my age. (Fat chance.)

Look for conclusive documentation to establish that Mike Pence does not have joint American-Russian citizenship. (And assume that he does until those records are found.)

Be as nice as pie to the spouse every minute of the every day. (The spouse wrote that.)

I recently purchased a hardcover version of God: A Biography by Jack Miles at Strand. When I got it home, a credit card receipt fell out indicating that someone had bought it shortly after it was published in 1995, paying list price of $27.50 (not an inconsiderable amount for a book two decades ago) at a book shop in Pasadena, California. I wondered how the book had made its way from Pasadena to Manhattan’s Broadway, but, of course, had no clue. I found signs in the book of a careful and interested reader. Numerous penciled underlinings and check marks were on every page, but they stopped mid-chapter on page fifty-eight. Why did the attentive reader stop at this point? I could imagine answers, but I will never really know.

I also bought at Strand Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man by Siegfried Sassoon. It was a first edition, quite worn, from Great Britain. Inscribed inside was what I took to be the first owner of the book. The handwriting was artistic, but I could not decipher it. Who was that person? On the inside back cover was something perhaps even more intriguing—faint writing. The spouse looked at it and said, “It might say Siegfried Sassoon.” I looked at it again. It was possible. Was I holding a book once signed by Sassoon? If so, the original owner became even more intriguing, but it will all remain an unsolved mystery.

The third book I recently bought at Unnameable brought back memories and presented mysteries. The first page of Fat of the Land: Garbage in New York the Last Two Hundred Years, published in 2000, had a stamp that it was placed in the Manitowoc, Wisconsin, public library on February 15, 2001. Seeing “Manitowoc” brought back memories. You might not be very familiar with this small city, but it was the next town north of where I grew up. I still have memories as a child of visiting a submarine there. You might not know that submarines were built in Manitowoc, Wisconsin, but they were—you can look it up. Manitowoc also held another memory. It was the place where I scored the most points for me in my undistinguished high school basketball career.

The book, however, brought not just memories but also mysteries. I could imagine why the book had been withdrawn from the Manitowoc Public Library—no one was checking it out—but why had it been purchased? Was there a suspected strong interest in the history of New York City’s garbage in this small town on Lake Michigan? And how did this book get from Manitowoc to Brooklyn’s Vanderbilt Avenue?

I do shop at a number of different bookstores, but mostly my bookstore heart now belongs to Greenlight. I thought that it made no sense that two people opened a bookstore in my neighborhood in what had once been an antiques store. I had read those stories about the deaths of independent bookstores, and my neighborhood was an obscure part of Brooklyn where few outsiders would breeze into the store, so opening this new bookstore seemed, to put it charitably, unwise.

I went into it shortly after it opened, and my first reaction was that it was too small. I thought it unlikely that I would find many books I wanted to purchase there, and at its beginning, I did not patronize Greenlight much. However, I had a tradition of reading the New York Times’ best books of the year list, finding selections for Christmas gifts, and heading off to a Barnes & Noble megastore to make the purchases. One year the daughter suggested that I buy locally and get them at Greenlight even if the local place did not offer the same discounts as the chain store, and for several years, I did buy the Christmas books there, but little else.

Over time, however, when I wanted a particular book, I would check out the convenient Greenlight before seeking another bookstore. Greenlight may have looked small, but now I realized that it had a surprising number of books that I sought. I became further impressed by the array of authors it had speaking at the store. And finally, much later than I should have, I found it was a wonderful store for browsing, that crucial factor for a great bookstore. Three or four tables in the center of the store are topped with a carefully arranged set of books, and almost all of them look interesting to me. Now almost every time I go by the store, which can be several times a week, I stop in to browse, and this browsing has led to many purchases. It is a remarkable store, and I am lucky to have Greenlight a five-minute walk from my house. It is in the neighborhood and an impressive store. Who could ask for anything more?

I hope that you, too, can find such a good bookstore.

If I wanted to be a licensed New York Sightseeing guide, I had to pass a test. I knew little about the test except that for a single fee I would get two chances within a year to pass the test. I developed a strategy. I would read as much New York City history as I could, take notes, then review the notes, and take the test. Having taken the test and failed it, I would know what I needed to bone up on, and I should be able to pass the test on the second try.

The Strand was integral to this plan. Each time I was near it, I would go to the bookstore’s extensive New York City section. I would scan the titles for something that looked interesting or about which I knew little and then look at the price. If the book cost less than $10, I would buy it. If it cost more than $10, I would re-shelve it. A glance at a bookshelf behind me as I now write indicates that I bought sixty or so books this way.

A day before I was to go into the hospital to have my right shoulder replaced, I took the test to take my mind off my coming months of pain and inconvenience and self-pity. I answered multiple-choice questions on a computer, and I got my result a few minutes after completing the test. Do you think I would be telling you this if I had not passed? I now have a card with my smiling picture that announces I am a licensed guide, and the Strand gets part of the credit for that.

Having re-established touch with the Strand, I continue to go there regularly. I still buy New York City history books, but I also look for books that will be useful for the spouse when she leads a book group. Other bookstores are also in my life. The Mysterious Bookstore in Manhattan’s Tribeca seems to have every mystery story ever written. Often when a friend convinces me that an author unknown to me has an enjoyable mystery series, I head to Reade Street, and I find it at Mysterious. But I confess there is another reason I love that bookstore. The walls are lined with shelves ten, twelve feet high or maybe even higher. Attached to the bookcases is a railing. And attached to the railing is one of those ladders that slide along the railings. I always wanted one of those, and this is as close as I get to having one. And the ladder is not just for the store employees; I get to climb it. When I am looking for something there, I am disappointed if I the book is not above my standing grasp. I want to climb that ladder.

Whenever I am near Unnameable Books in Brooklyn’s Prospect Heights, I go in and almost always find on its shelves of used books something to buy. I was there two days ago and bought three books, with each one reminding me of some advantages of used books and their stores. Of course, there is the price. One of my purchases was of a book that I had first seen in the book shop of the New York Public Library, where I was doing research. Although the book had been well reviewed, I was not sure that I wanted to read about the subject matter, as indicated by its title: Rats: Observations on the History and Habitat of the City’s Most Unwanted Inhabitants. But now at Unnameable, I found it at a fraction of the list price and consequently thought I might give it a try.

The stocks of used and new bookstores often overlap, but they will also differ. I will find books in a used bookstore that look like they may interest me that I would not find in a new bookstore. In that last foray in Unnameable, I found a history of science published in America a decade ago about the advance in scientific knowledge at the end of the eighteenth century. I read a few paragraphs and thought it was well written. I have started reading and enjoying it. I doubt that I would have found the Age of Wonder in a new bookstore.

And used books sometimes tantalize me with mysteries and glimpses of stories not contained in the book. A few recent examples to come. (To be continued.)