Dutton's final page

By T.C. Boyle

February 27, 2008

In 1985, I was living in Woodland Hills with my wife and two young children, about to publish my fourth book of fiction and beginning, in a vague way, to wonder about such things as marketing and retail establishments.

Up the street, squeezed into the mall next to the grocery, was a scion of the giant Crown Books chain. This particular Crown Books seemed entirely given over to titles and authors I'd never heard of; even more puzzling was the fact that these books were exclusively of the mass-market variety and that trade paperbacks (the sort that represented my modest backlist) wouldn't even fit on the shelves.

Ever resourceful, I sent my wife and 5-year-old daughter in to reconnoiter. My wife, posing as an interested customer, told the clerk how disappointed she was not to find any of her favorite author's books on the shelves, and she talked up my latest title until my daughter, unable to contain her enthusiasm, burst out with "Yes, and he's my daddy!"

Ah, the sting of that. But salvation was at hand: Within the week -- at the prompting of my editor all the way back in New York -- I discovered the towering stacks and shadowy warrens of Dutton's Books in Brentwood. I stepped tentatively through the door, fresh from the humiliation of Crown Books (and further blows at other chain stores), only to be tenderly wrapped in the aura of a bibliophile's paradise -- the lighting dim, the interior hushed, a smell of print investing the air as if the presses were even then churning away in the basement.

It was like stumbling into a Borgesian reality in which everything was made of books -- the walls, the floors, the ceilings, even the employees. Before I could think, there was Scott Wannberg, one of the true literary zealots of our time, exploding from behind a cordillera of books to greet me. Within minutes, I'd signed the well-represented editions of my own titles, which were on permanent display right alongside those of all the authors I most admired, and then Scott was piling my arms high with books I absolutely just had to read. He had a sixth sense, knowing exactly what I wanted and needed, and from then on, though it was a bit of a haul from Woodland Hills, Dutton's was my bookshop.

I came to know Doug Dutton, Diane Leslie and many of the other book-obsessed staff, and, over the years, I cruised the aisles as a customer and gave and attended a whole host of readings in the too-cozy confines of the place.

On Monday, Doug announced that the store's last day would be April 30 -- that it was closing, as Dutton's in Beverly Hills had closed in late 2006 (and as Doug's brother's store, the Dutton's in North Hollywood, closed last year). Doug told The Times he was closing because of the store's heavy debt and because of the vagaries of the book world, apparently referring to competition from such giant chain stores as Barnes & Noble and online retailers such as Amazon.com.

I will miss Dutton's. And so will everyone else who knows and loves books. We still have Skylight, Book Soup and Vroman's, but there will be a big hole on San Vicente Boulevard.

A few personal highlights: Scott informing me that Bob Dylan had been in and purchased one of my books (and me wondering: which one?). Reading in the courtyard because the store was too small to handle the crowd and worrying about the traffic noise until the thunder of a pair of Harleys obliterated all sense -- and only then discovering that the bikes were piloted by my amigos, Chuck and Jorma, come to welcome me.

The lusty screaming of babies (on most occasions my own). Haunting the Nature section in the back room off the main store and feverishly plunging into Annie Dillard, David Quammen and Bill McKibben.

Hearing Robert Stone read from "Outerbridge Reach" on a night when the first question from the audience was, "Mr. Stone, what was it like to ride the psychedelic bus with Ken Kesey?" Talking with Ray Carver for the last time, even as he graciously signed "Where I'm Calling From" for a line of 300 customers, and he reassured me that he was doing just fine, though he was to die later that year.

Having Scott introduce me with one of his wild, rabble-rousing poems and then standing back to watch the war of emotions play over the faces of the packed-tight crowd as I sang out my stories to them.

And best of all: Listening to the hush on a steamy night, crowded in with the faithful to give and receive the precious words.


T.C. Boyle is the author of 21 books of fiction, including the forthcoming "The Women" and "Wild Child and Other Stories." He is a professor of English at USC.



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Author T.C. Boyle (Viking/Penguin)