Elliott Bay Books in Seattle was the store that allowed me to think of myself as a writer – long before I ever had any notion such a thing was possible.  In the tile-floored basement cafe, shelves of cast-off volumes lined the walls while you — novelty of novelties! — ate food and drank coffee amid the burble of Pioneer Square.  You could sit and read and consider who these mysterious, unknown authors might have been, and you got to appreciate the tactile immortality a published book represented.  The store’s recent move to Capitol Hill has been a great success, it seems to me, and the store looks healthier and happier in its new location, like a rhododendron transplanted into more fertile soil.  Long live Elliott Bay!

And where better to celebrate the “street day” of Percival’s Planet?

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