In pre-loved books, you’re getting two stories for the price of one—the one written on it and the previous life it touched.
Nothing beats the smell of new books eagerly waiting to embark on an adventure. But there’s also a distinct feeling in finding a slightly handled piece of literature tucked into a corner of a secondhand bookstore. It’s like buying a vintage denim jacket with yellowed patches over a brand-new, squeaky dress shirt.
With major book chains present across the country, there are a handful of decent options for Filipino bibliophiles when it comes to choosing their next read. Booksale has long been one of them. That’s why the news of Booksale closing some branches hit differently. It felt like an old friend passing on. It also took me back to a time when I saw these places beyond a source of affordable books.
Page-turning comfort


Like a snowflake, not one store is similar to the other. For myself, I always come back to the comforting stacks of a nearby branch where I live. Sure, you’ve got your usual suspects of bestsellers right upfront—multiple copies of Dan Brown’s Robert Langdon series and of course, a handful of Stephenie Meyer’s vampire saga greeting you by the entrance.
The branch that I frequented almost every day after class was near the former complex of the original Fiesta Carnival back in 2012. I usually pass by the random toys near the counter, darting by the leather-bound religious books and feeling needlessly guilty before finally hopping onto the shelf labeled: fiction.
It was a decade ago when I fought my bouts of depression during a difficult time in my life. I let myself get enveloped by those pages I discovered at Booksale. In between Sudoku puzzles and the fiction books I devoured, it was a refuge to confront my struggles and begin to heal.
One of the highlights of going to Booksale is the rush of finding a gem buried underneath the chaos of the lightly categorized yet arbitrarily placed books in stock. I, on the other hand, felt like I owed the books that found me seemingly at the right place—you know the rest.
It was the late writer David Foster Wallace who said fiction was a way to combat loneliness. In his 1996 interview with his former editor Gerald Howard from Elle magazine volume II issue 6, he noted: “Fiction, poetry, music, really deep serious sex, and, in various ways, religion—these are the places (for me) where loneliness is countenanced, stared down, transfigured, treated. In lots of ways it’s all there is.”
One of the books I remember is Breakfast with Buddha (2007). I related to Roland Merullo’s main character, Otto Ringling, the skeptic New Yorker who was essentially forced to travel with Volya Rinpoche, a spiritual guru from Siberia. The book reads like a buddy cop film that blends spiritual connection, with undertones of atheism wrapped in comedic timing, reminiscent of a road trip film from the 2000s.


Although admittedly a spiritual book, what I love most about this find was how timely it assuaged me to stay in the present. Amid anxiety and doubt, the conversations between Otto and Rinpoche led me to an appreciation for finding meaning in the quiet moments of life.
Plus, the visual of a monk clearing lanes in the bowling alley is always a funny scene to me.
The next book was memorable for two reasons. A. J. Jacobs’ The Know-It-All (2004) is the quest of the author to become the smartest man in the world. He believed he could do this by reading the entire volume set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and winning the game show Jeopardy!.
Jacobs recounted his journey in this memoir through chapters connected to his current progress of which letter of the encyclopedia he’s covering.


It’s memorable because first, I grabbed this book right after one customer decided not to buy it; and second, some of the facts I learned from this book are still a funny party trick. Unfortunately, I will always remember that bandicoots have two—well, let’s say distinct male parts down there… since like other marsupials, they have bifurcated penises. Now, you get to know it, too.
If there’s a book that has questioned my resolve on what I hold dear and long for, it’s Waiting, the 1999 novel by Chinese-American author Ha Jin, a winner of the National Book Award in the same year.
The book follows Lin Kong, a doctor who wants to divorce his wife of 18 years, Shuyu, from the countryside. He tried to end things with his spouse to finally propose to his lover in the city, Manna. Each year, Lin backs out of the divorce, faced with indecisiveness and legal constraints. Based on the period the novel is set in, there needs to be a strong case of evidence like infidelity to be granted a divorce in China. This inaction forced Lin to wait 18 years, which met the legal requirement of separation to file a divorce without mutual consent.


The story then revolves around these characters hampered by the complexities of societal norms set in the backdrop of a fictionalized communist China during the 1960s.
Waiting poses an intriguing take on perseverance and the fine line between patience and complacency. Something that you’ve pined your whole life may not be the opportunity that you wanted after all.
These books among many others I’ve encountered and bought in Booksale have held a significant period in my life. Having a place surrounded by books sparked the life I wanted to have and the belief I needed to do it.
Harkening back to my regular visits to Booksale all those years ignites the romantic in me to compare it to the old libraries of Thebes in ancient Egypt. One of the earliest authenticated library can be found during the time of Pharaoh Ramses II.
One of its entrances bore an inscription: the house of healing for the soul.