Sentinels of Culture

There is a charm in the brightness of the Pacific Northwest, that light that inspired painters, captivated writers and was explained by scientists, because it fuses the colors of Vancouver’s extraordinary landscape in a film scenery and almost dream.

Harbourfront is one of the noble areas of the largest city in British Columbia, a skyscraper forest with ample avenues, but with a surprising tranquility by the sea.

The days are long in late spring and very early are the corridors and those who walk dogs, morning figures typical of Western megalopolis. Later begins the bustling of the hydroavions, which circulate like noisy metal birds, momentarily sharing the waters with vessels of all sizes, in a ravage background, where the mountains with the spikes covered by the snow white stand out.

The extensive US cities were not designed to be traveled on foot, but I insist and find that even Gastown the tour is pleasant. Today is a neighborhood Trendyfull of stores souvenirs and restaurants, with mobile tourists in hand waiting to capture the steaming whistle of the curious steam watch. But it was here that Vancouver was born and historical interest is preserved in buildings built in the late nineteenth and early century.

THE cannabis It’s not just cool in Canada, it is for many a daily and public habit. In my walk I have crossed the unbearable and difficult smell to avoid the herb, but the first toxicode dependents I saw, prostrate on the ground in a deplorable state, were fentanyl consumers.

The devastating effects of this drug even caused diplomatic tensions between the US and his northern neighbor, but even though he saw videos about this epidemic was a shock to watch her live. There are huge avenues that become a video game where we cross with hundreds of characters who resemble zombie. These dehumanized figures alternate between three states. They drag themselves as if they are in a slow chamber, stir in cadenced spasms without leaving where they are, or remain static, sometimes in bizarre positions, like on a macabre yoga.

As I think about how it is possible, with the excuse of freedom of individual choice, allow such a public health problem in a city like this, I see my goal.

The entrance to the MacLeod’s Books is exactly a corner, but it is clear that one will enter into an immense and cluttered area of ​​carving. It is the vertex for a vortex, the entry into a wonderful world for a bibliophile and a nightmare for the compulsive obsessive of cleanliness and tidies. There are stacks of books everywhere, despite the shelves to burst to the ceiling, and for the laity in the matter we seem that we broke into an abandoned place for years. On the contrary, I cross with several people and I notice that none is by chance, much less for tourism. They know what they go, just like me. Quickly me from organized chaos and priority trait.

I recognize on the central island, entrenched in books, Don Stewart, the owner of the bookstore for over half a century, who maintained the original name, even though it changed location. He is talking to a client, suggesting him titles that he is unaware of, because this is the bookier’s function, and I think: «A real carbistant, alright!

The day before it was the anniversary of Heidegger’s death and is a good excuse to start in the section of philosophy. I see that the Master of Todtnauberg is on very high shelves and I find it natural to have to raise me to reach him. I go up to a bank and take a long time to choose. There is a lot of offer and the limits of airlines weigh. From the arts section I rescue a biography of John Singer Singer Sargent, but the albums have to stay, and follow to literature.

I have been around with the figure of Wyndham Lewis and, without surprise, I discover it here. The choice is easy, because I find the « portrait of the artist as the enemy » by Geoffrey Wagner, one of the first studies on the work of the one that TS Eliot considered « the most fascinating personality of our time. » But Pearl is a centenary edition of its first novel, Pardon. Lewis was a Briton born in Canada and, therefore, together, Eliot and Pound, Americans who returned to Europe, the motherland, physically and culturally.

I will pay and serve me a tall, smiling young man who praises my choices. It’s sincere and we talk about Lewis and not only. Knowing that I am Portuguese and that I had never been there, it tells me that there was used to three bookstores in that area, but now there are only two and advises me to visit Paper Hound, a little further ahead. « It is cleaner and more organized, » confesses with an accomplice look. « I believe, but for those who like books this is paradise, » he says.

I go out and see that the zone, very degraded, has been vibrant. There are many closed stores and some vacant buildings on my journey to another bookstore, where I deviate, indifferently, zombie.

The Paper Hound Bookshop is an Aprumo! From a Dionysian explosion I pass to the Apolinea Order and I remember how they complement each other. This is a smaller bookstore, not just ordered but impeccably decorated. I buy a book in French, published in Quebec, on the hyvvetic and literary aspects in Jung’s work, which he was unaware of. I talk to the owner, lovely and knowledgeable of the Swiss psychologist, telling you that I will take the book to the banks of Lake Zurich. I smiled and tells me it goes to the right place. It’s another return …

Even in a ruined world, bookstores are both advanced posts and the last strongholds in which we are sentinels of culture.