Powells Books, Portland, once upon a time

There was a time when you could park the car for free across the street from the main entrance in the little lot reserved for Doc Martens.

For hours.

And you needed hours.

At Powells you never had enough time even when you had as much time as you needed. You always needed more time, as long as it takes to write a poem or a novel in the great novelistic tradition.

Because there was more to Powells then. Whatever you were seeking you would find, even if you weren't seeking it at the time.

And now there's even more but much less as well and it's sad but can't be helped.

The science fiction section has greatly expanded, as have the mystery and cookbook titles. The bestseller collections have expanded most of all, to include virtually every known book ever printed in both fiction and nonfiction categories.

The discernment necessary to choose high quality books of limited or no popularity and to put these books on the shelves so that a reader might be continually surprised and rewarded by the unexpected, once more than a sure thing at Powells, seems to have been sacrificed for the creation of a shopping experience designed to last no more than one hour and much less than two.

The glory days of Powells blossomed during the reign of William Gaddis; the beginning of downfall occurred sometime in the era of Joyce Carol Oates, though it's not her fault.