Brazenhead Books, one of New York City’s most storied literary destinations, lies dormant–from the outside, at least–in an Upper East Side apartment. The only way in is by invite or appointment; both options involve a certain level of stealth.
It took me a lot of nerve and three tries in the White Pages to reach the correct Michael Seidenberg, proprietor. I leafed–or rather moused–through the Phone Book, all the while wondering about the paradox of searching for a secret bookstore in a public database, piled thick with what many would now consider privileged information. Then, as cold calling is probably one of the rudest things you can do to a stranger in 2012, I had to leave my manners on the shore to dive deep into this 20th century place of lore.
And on my third try I started to leave an awkward voice mail (remember those, from ’90s romantic comedies?) along the lines of “umm, if this is the right Michael Seidenberg of Brazenhead Books, I’m going to be in the city tomorrow and would like to discuss the possibility of visiting your…” at which point the message was interrupted and I was met with a velvety Brooklyn accent inviting me to an open house the next night.
Brazenhead didn’t get many customers before the Etsy video that has buttressed its recent surge in popularity. And that was only because very few knew about the place. Seidenberg has only been running the store in his rent-controlled apartment since 2008, a place he previously used as a store house for excess books while he was running his shop down the street. But as sky-rocketing rent forced him to shut down his store, he brought more and more books to the apartment. And at the suggestion of a friend, he eventually opened his home to readers.
Seidenberg admits that the popularity of the place has since become a bit overwhelming. “I have stalkers,” he says laughing. “But my listed number has my home address.” People have shown up to his home unannounced–“mostly on Sundays though,” he says, as if stalking is more appropriate after a light brunch.
A notable difference between Brazenhead Books and other used bookstores–other than the obvious fact that the former is a tight-lipped secret–is that Seidenberg buys his books individually instead of acquiring entire collections. This happens to be an expensive business model, but makes the experience of purchasing a book from Brazenhead much more personal for both buyer and seller. For the latter, it’s also blissfully overwhelming.
One step into the cavernous-lair-layout and I felt inhabited by the peering stacks. But intimidation quickly took the back seat as a light musk emanating from Seidenberg’s pipe met the hum of short stories from a PRI programme, and together softened the edged out alcoves. The bookstore is designed in such a way that once you find a book that meets your fancy you need only to fall back and you will land on a well-worn cushioned seat.
Seidenberg can’t say how many books he has. “Counting would distract from reading them,” he says dryly, which is how he says most things. And has he read them all? No, because he believes a book shelf shouldn’t be a trophy case to impress, but a private pleasure, something one can turn to and pique the interest of any particular mood. He has the same ambition for Brazenhead: “I don’t want to be the place where you find what you’re looking for; I want to be the place where you find what you’re not looking for.”
As more people (or rather, women) walked in to Brazenhead that evening, they quickly assembled themselves around Seidenberg. It seemed the books weren’t the only draw in attending the open house. And Seidenberg, for his part, served his ardent fans books, stories, and alcohol, pouring each with equal purpose and measure. When I asked him about the laws confining his endeavour, he just smiled and said, “People fall in love with the place and just protect it; they have an interest in protecting it.”
Seidenberg was born in Williamsburg when it was only “Hasidic Jews and Puerto Ricans;” he likened the experience to West Side Story, adding “there were no hipsters then.” His first store in Brooklyn, on Atlantic Avenue, was sandwiched between antique shops, so business was slow and infrequent, occurring mostly on Sundays. His Manhattan store also suffered because of its underground location, and is now a laundromat. He believes that there is a market for his books, but also that people aren’t spending like they used to.
As someone who lives on digital currency, my one major short sight of the evening was not bringing enough cash. That isn’t usually a problem in used bookstore, but there were so many books I wanted; I dithered and flitted, but I had to decisively choose one. I picked up a signed copy of Motherless Brooklyn written by Jonathan Lethem, who, as it turns out, worked for Seidenberg in his Brooklyn shop. “I’m a character in that book,” Seidenberg tells me. “But…” [SPOILER ALERT] “…I’m killed on page 15.”
As we made our exit, Seidenberg received a text from a friend who had recently purchased John Wray’s Lowboy, a novel written entirely on New York subways. Said friend was just letting Seidenberg know he finished the book; had read it, in fact, entirely on New York subways. A New York story within a New York story, and a perfect ending to the evening.
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Safa Jinje lives and writes in Toronto (except when she goes on vacation). Follow her on Twitter at @safajinje.
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