Last fall, during a visit to Barnes & Noble's flagship store in New York City's Union Square, the British bibliophile James Daunt strode about the ground floor in oxblood loafers deploring the bookshop's hideous appearance. The carpets were dusty, and the escalators had broken down. A cheap pine table was littered with trinkets and scented candles. A vase was wedged between new titles, its bouquet of sunflowers sagging in brown water. "I like the idea of the flowers, but you have to change the water," Daunt said. "And you have to put in decent flowers-you can't just go down to the petrol station and grab a bunch. I mean, look at it."
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