Reading a book and spotting an unfamiliar word is on par with the thrill of reaching into a jacket pocket and finding an unexpected $20.

I collect them—like getting passport stamps from books I’ve visited.

Here’s one from a book I found at The Last Bookstore in Los Angeles:

Amanuensis: one employed to write from dictation or to copy manuscript.

“Annie thereby became Eunice’s victim and amanuensis, paying her a third of that pension…”

A Judgement in Stone, Ruth Rendell, 1977.

I had never heard the word before, which is exactly why I love finding them. Every unfamiliar word feels like discovering a little door in a book I thought I already understood.

The Last Bookstore is full of those doors.

Cavernous yet cozy, it has literal tunnels of literature, maze-like corridors stacked with books, and a bazillion little nooks hidden within two floors of packed shelving.

The used-book smell is unmatched, with strong notes of unexplored escapism, unmet friends, and unlimited possibility.