In one fell swoop, Borders has ensured that I will never shop there again. (Not that I was anyway.)

This Baltimore Sun item describes how the big box bookstores are no longer placing the nooks, crannies, and chairs that were once de rigueur a few decades ago. In the case of Borders, the chain has cut back their soft seating by 30%. The complaints are the usual ones: the homeless, necking lovers, people leaving trash behind, and other assorted riff-raff. (Of course, it’s not as if these prohibitive factors didn’t exist when the bookstores did provide more seating.)

Customers seem to be lounging in the bookstores anyway, sitting on the floor and sometimes not buying anything at all. But is this really so bad? One might argue that Starbucks’ tolerance for sitters who don’t purchase a cafe au lait, or anything at all really, may very well be one of the reasons why it’s impossible to wander around Manhattan without running into one of those monolithic green circles — sometimes with remarkable square footage. And there’s a considerable difference in profit margin between a $29.95 hardcover and a $2.95 cafe au lait. But you don’t see Starbucks cutting back on its soft seating.

All this reminds me of what Jane Jacobs had to say about people being naturally inclined to sit on steps and how these recurrent populist acts — wholly natural, of course — led to strange underclass labels. What’s to suggest that people naturally sitting in a bookstore won’t bring in long-term revenue over time? Can’t a bookstore learn a few things from coffeehouse culture and be a kind of community? If people are permitted to sit and congregate without being badgered by a humorless manager, they might meet a friend who, in turn, might purchase a few books. Further, book enthusiasts tend to be natural browsers, often pinpointing particular volumes for later purchase. Is not a certain amount of tolerance for the literary inclined a sound business proposition?

Sure, some of the sitters will be inveterate slobs. And you’ll need staff to clean up messes and restock books. But it’s a small price to pay for an amicable atmosphere. Maybe I simply have more faith in humankind than the iron-fisted Borders executives. But I’ve found that most people, barring a few assholes who try to make everyone’s lives miserable, are pretty polite and friendly. So why be discourteous and force them sit on the floor?

(via Galleycat)

[UPDATE: While I didn’t have the time to dig up my copy of Jane Jacobs’s The Death and Life of Great American Cities and a few other New Urbanist books to quote for this post, Charlottesville Words thankfully drew a few comparisons between this seating imbroglio and Paco Underhill’s Why We Buy: The Science of Shopping.]

Controversial though it may sound, the people who work at Waterstone’s — and, in particular, Jon Howells — have smaller penises than those working at any other bookstore in the world.

Sad news from Publishers Weekly this morning: The first, Cody’s is closing its doors in San Francisco. April 20 is the day the Union Square store will dissolve. Since Cody’s is a major outlet for local author events and readings, this means a huge deal for the San Francisco literary scene.

It’s been a long time since I’ve set foot into a Waldenbooks store, but Bloomberg reports that Waldenbooks is shutting half of its stores, selling the majority of its international division after an unexpected loss. Waldenbooks is owned by Borders Group Inc. and CEO George Jones has said that Borders’ new focus will be giving its larger bookstores an overhaul and revamping its website. The ever-reliable Jim Milliot has more: Borders will be developing a new “concept store” this year, with the first one set to open early next year. There’s no word on whether these “concept stores” will be the capitalist equivalent of a 1970s progressive rock album, but Jones did remark, “We have too much inventory in our stores.” Whether “too much inventory” translates into not enough blockbusters and fewer independent titles is a mystery, but it recalls a particular Anne Sexton poem that doesn’t exactly leave readers performing happy pirouettes on an expansive lawn.