How can a place call itself a bookstore when it doesn’t carry any of the publications of Bill Bryson, possibly the greatest writer of all time? How can people work in a bookstore, thereby assuming unto themselves the label of “book person” because they accepted the job after all, and not know who Bill Bryson is?? And then they couldn’t point me in the right direction for Camus, Solzhenitsyn, or Neruda. God, that sounded pretentious.