Locations: City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco
The summer of 1967 was a momentous year for North American cities. Montreal, as host of Expo 67, was the focus for the celebration of Canada’s 100th birthday. In Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Detroit and Washington, race riots were changing the face of those cities, in some cases, permanently.
In San Francisco, there was a whole different groove: it was The Summer of Love. Even today, 50 years later, when I think of San Francisco, I can’t help but picture euphoric figures in psychedelic T-shirts dancing in the streets with flowers in their hair.
The last time I visited San Francisco was in the autumn of 2013. I’ve always liked the city, mostly for its strong independent spirit, not to mention its challenging topography, its Tiki culture and its relentless grip on my romantic inclinations. To get my nostalgic fix, I always head to 261 Columbus Avenue, where City Lights Bookstore has been selling and publishing books for more than 60 years. It’s rare enough for a bookstore to have survived for all that time, but even more unusual for a cultural marker like City Lights to continue to thrive, and to embody the spirit on which it was founded: the tradition of beat poetry and freedom of expression, in all forms.
For the complete story, we have to go back to the summer of 1957. In that year, City Lights owner and founder Lawrence Ferlinghetti was tried and acquitted of charges that he distributed obscene material. The obscene material in question was Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and Other Poems (City Lights, 1956) – a publication that is still available on City Lights’ shelves, along with the work of many other beat poets and store habitués.
The judgment that was handed down by judge Clayton W. Horn – “that a book with ‘the slightest redeeming social importance’ guarantees First Amendment protection” – settled an enduring argument and paved the way for a new era in freedom of expression. Thus a victory won by the Beat Generation in the ’50s allowed the Hippie Movement of the ’60s to flourish. San Francisco and, more specifically City Lights Bookstore, was at the epicentre of this social tidal wave.
It was a Saturday afternoon when I pushed open the front door of the store and entered the tiny vestibule. The aroma of books – 60 years’ worth – lured me further into the sacred interior. A sharp right, a few steps up, straight down an aisle lined by books to the rear, a straight staircase leads to the Poetry Room. Here is the heart of the experience: walls lined with shelves containing works by Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg (of course), Frank O’Hara, William S. Burroughs, Charles Bukowsky and others. Not all of the books have been published by city lights, but they represent the work of writers who found a home there. On a table, a book caught my eye: Poems for Architects. It seemed like a message from God. I picked the book up and tucked it under my arm.
At one end of the Poetry Room, a small group of students was sitting on the floor, while another student read beat poetry. No one in the group appeared to be older than 25. At a rough calculation, it’s likely that even their parents weren’t around in the ’50s when the Beat Generation was recording its startling thoughts and City Lights was publishing them. I didn’t recognize the poetry, but the tone and delivery of the reader had absolutely the right edge. Memories of Saturday nights at Toronto’s Bohemian Embassy in the early ’60s began to lock me into a daydream, which came to an abrupt end when the reading stopped. There was a brief contemplative pause and the sound of raindrops on wet pavement: it was the audience showing their appreciation by snapping their fingers, just as they might have done 60 years ago in this same spot. The poetry, the young audience sitting on the floor, the flawless delivery and the beatnik applause … this wasn’t like the ’50s – this was the ’50s. Incredibly, I had entered a cultural time machine. I was nearly overwhelmed.
With my Poems for Architects still tucked under my arm, I headed back down the stairs toward the cash desk at the entry. On my way out, I noticed another small book, with its cover facing out. A brief blurb under the title Several Short Sentences About Writing included the statement. “Best book on writing. Ever.” I picked up that book too and later discovered that the blurb was entirely true. I recommend it to anyone who asks for a good book about writing, and I’m recommending it to you, right now.
What makes a place special? Is specialness something that architects can design? The answer is obviously yes; they’ve been doing it for thousands of years, but a lot of the time, specialness is something that a place acquires over the years – some incredible people having spent time there, a world-changing event having been centred there, a guiding principle, and simply having endured.
Promise me you’ll visit City Lights next time you go to San Francisco. If you’re lucky, you might see Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He’s 98 years old now, but they told me he still comes into the shop.