Forty-two shops, most of them drawn from seven Los Angeles Times articles, 1968–1977
Esotouric · 11 September 2026 · updated 12 October 2026
Los Angeles from Brentwood east to Eagle Rock. The trade clusters in three places: Hollywood Boulevard, North La Cienega, and Westwood Village.
HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD — Highland Avenue to Argyle. Sixteen bookstores in eight-tenths of a mile, as the Times drew it in 1976.
WESTWOOD VILLAGE, BRENTWOOD and CENTURY CITY.
WESTWOOD VILLAGE, close-up — Le Conte Avenue south to Lindbrook Drive. Seven shops within a few blocks of each other.
Bob and Mary Costa opened at 1615 Colorado Boulevard in Eagle Rock and Bazrod called it, in 1977, one of the newest stores devoted to Hollywood memorabilia. Comics, science fiction and metaphysical books alongside the posters — older films at fifteen to twenty dollars, most stills around five, and colour stills from Gone With the Wind at ten to fifteen. One section was given to books about how movies are made. A Life magazine from the 1930s ran ten to fifteen dollars, which in a shop like this was sold as a picture of a star rather than as a magazine.
Sondra Farrell Bazrod put a number on it in 1977 and the number is astonishing: two million movie stills at 6763 Hollywood Boulevard, fifty thousand of them priced at ten cents. Original scripts from the silent era forward — Outlaws of Red River with Tom Mix, Charlie Chan at the Olympics, Earthquake — from $2.50 into the hundreds. Movie magazines in very fine
condition dating to 1911 at $25 to $30. The shop set out to cover a film from the first draft of the script through the stills, the ads and the clips, and it filled mail orders from around the world.
Twelve years before he opened it, Jerry Weinstein was in the junk business, buying odd lots of lamps and towels. He bought some used books at a nickel each and, Riley wrote, "somehow he knew he'd found the right thing. Book City opened around 1973 at 6627 Hollywood Boulevard and within two years held 150,000 volumes, the largest stock in Los Angeles, open till ten on weekdays and eleven on weekends. His partner was Alan Siegel. His customers ran from actors preparing parts —
Have you got anything on Rasputin?" asked Jack Palance — to the staff of politicians quietly selling off the boss's library.
Riley calls it "Lou Epstein's Pickwick (the chain now, which started out as a used and new bookstore)" and places it among the handful of shops already on the Boulevard when Jack Blum arrived in 1950. It appears on the 1976 Times map at the Las Palmas end. The parenthesis carries the whole trajectory: a used-and-new store on Hollywood Boulevard that became a chain, which is what the Boulevard's booksellers spent the seventies refusing to do. ⚠ Position approximate from the 1976 map; no street number appears in any article we hold.
One of three shops drawn side by side near Las Palmas on the 1976 Times map, with Pickwick and Fred Dorsett, at the Boulevard's densest point. ⚠ Name and position only; no proprietor, no specialty, no street number in any article we hold. The clustering is the information — three bookstores in a single short block, which is what Ben Reuven meant when he wrote that nowhere else in Southern California could a reader find sixteen bookstores within comfortable strolling distance on one street.
A bookseller trading under his own name, drawn beside Pickwick and Pantages near Las Palmas on the 1976 Times map. ⚠ Name and position only. A shop named for a man rather than a subject or a street usually meant a dealer whose judgment was the stock — the sort of business that does not survive its proprietor and leaves almost no record when it ends. That he is on the map at all, between two better-known neighbours, is most of what we can say.
On the 1976 Times map near Cherokee Avenue, on the north side. ⚠ Name and position only; nothing in the text of any article we hold. It stood within a few doors of Cherokee Book Shop and Book City, in the stretch of the Boulevard that by the mid-seventies held the greatest concentration of used books in Southern California — Riley's phrase, and he meant it literally. Fifteen shops within a mile, he wrote, where in 1950 there had been a handful.
Jack Garvin's store, on the 1976 Times map near Whitley, and the source of the single best line about why the trade stayed put. I moved to Westwood Village in 1971,
he told Ben Reuven, and one year later I was back on the Boulevard. This is still the book center in Southern California.
Reuven had asked whether the booksellers would follow the money west, as everything else in Los Angeles had. Garvin had already tried it. ⚠ Position approximate from the 1976 map; no street number in any article we hold.
Marked on the 1976 Times map near Wilcox, on the north side of the Boulevard. ⚠ Name and position only. Its neighbours are documented and it is not, which is the ordinary condition of the trade: a newspaper draws sixteen dots and interviews the four proprietors who will talk. The shops that left no interview left no record, and the map is the only evidence that they were there at all.
Jack Blum opened on Cherokee Avenue in 1950, recovering from glaucoma and fresh from Chicago and Arizona, and moved to 6607 Hollywood Boulevard. By 1975 he had a hundred thousand volumes and a staff of specialists — Clark Casey, voluble and raffish,
on Americana; Wayne Braby on military; Oliver Dernberger on cinema. Upstairs was the other empire: a hundred and fifty thousand comic books and a wall of Playboys on the second floor, built by his son Burt, whom Tom Nolan photographed in 1969 and called the king of the comics.
Blum at seventy-one: we have weeded out all the very common things.
A few doors from the Musso & Frank Grill at 6667 Hollywood Boulevard, and in the thirties that proximity was the whole point. The roll call of the back gallery runs Faulkner, John O'Hara, Erskine Caldwell, Dashiell Hammett, Meyer Levin, Fitzgerald, Saroyan, Nathanael West — long Saturday lunches at Musso's and boozy late-night songfests at Rose's. Yelive Moss, who started as a clerk there, remembered it as the best, the most creative of times.
Larry Edmunds managed the shop before he had his own. ⚠ Position beside Musso's; no street number of its own appears in any article we hold.
Paperbacks at 7055 Hollywood Boulevard, near the western end of the run, and one of the few shops in the city that stocked back numbers of magazines. Riley mentions it in passing and the detail is the whole entry: a paperback house at the top of the Boulevard keeping runs of old magazines nobody else would hold. That is what the Boulevard was for. Sixteen bookstores in eight-tenths of a mile meant a customer could fail at seven doors and succeed at the eighth, and the shops survived on being the eighth door often enough.
Mrs. Larson kept her shop on Hollywood Boulevard near Western in dim yellow light, day and night, and Tom Nolan reported it bathed in the overwhelming odor of cats at least two of which are always flummaging by under your feet.
She sold the occult and she sold all of it — Aleister Crowley on black magic at one end, and at the other "violent plastic horoscope records with labels like 'Hi—You're a Leo!' Nolan called her
recognized all over town as the leading figure in her specialty." The photograph caption is better still: at Larson's, the great and near-great had signed testimonials to the occult.
On the south side of Hollywood Boulevard on the 1976 Times map. ⚠ Name and position only in the sources we hold — and a proprietor's name is commonly attached to this shop that appears in none of our articles, so it is not repeated here. What can be said is where it stood: the south sidewalk, among the general and used stores, in the years when the Boulevard was, in Reuven's words, "a queasy combination of New York's 4th Ave. and 42nd St."
On the south side of the Boulevard by Cosmo Street on the 1976 Times map, opposite the densest north-side cluster. ⚠ Name and position only. The name suggests the mail-order trade that Riley identified as the real economy underneath the storefronts: almost all used bookshops in Los Angeles did half or more of their business through printed catalogues, and since the Depression that business had increasingly been with libraries rather than readers.
One of three shops drawn together between Vine and Argyle at the eastern end of the 1976 Times map, with Universal and Marlow's. ⚠ Name and position only. The eastern cluster is the mirror of the Las Palmas cluster at the other end — the run of bookstores did not thin out toward Argyle, it bunched again, which is why Reuven could describe the whole eight-tenths of a mile as a single bookselling district rather than a scattering.
Drawn between Vine and Argyle on the 1976 Times map, beside Osborne's and Marlow's. ⚠ Name and position only. A newsstand among bookstores, at the Vine Street end where the studios and the radio buildings were — the trade in current periodicals sitting at the edge of a trade in dead ones. Riley noted that only a few Los Angeles shops kept back numbers of magazines at all; a newsstand is where those back numbers began.
The easternmost of the sixteen on the 1976 Times map, between Vine and Argyle. ⚠ Name and position only. Reuven's boundary stops one block east of Vine at Argyle, so Marlow's sits at the very edge of the district as the Times drew it — the last bookstore before the map runs out. Whether anything stood beyond it, the map does not say, and neither does the text.
The shop has been at its Hollywood Boulevard address since 1938 and holds what Nolan called the best collection of books on Hollywood and the theatre to be found in the city.
Larry Edmunds himself was long dead by 1969; before he had his own shop he managed Stanley Rose's, the Boulevard store where the well-paid screenwriters drank away their afternoons. His partners were the three Luboviskis — Din, Phil and Milt. Milt Luboviski told the Times in 1976: "I may be fearful of the Boulevard after dark, but the thought of moving is the most frightening thought of all. I'd rather go out of business than move the store."
Not on the Boulevard at all, as it turns out: 1638 North Wilcox Avenue, around the corner. The 1976 Times map draws it at the Wilcox end of the south side and gives no number; Bazrod's 1977 directory supplies one, and it is on Wilcox itself. Open noon to half past five every day but Tuesday and Sunday. Posters from the forties and stills running from that decade to the present, one dollar to twenty. A small shop with a narrow specialty in a trade that by 1977 had almost entirely given itself over to the movies.
Nolan gives him a photograph and a single line, and no street number at all: Phil Mason runs a used-book emporium on Western Avenue, where bookscouts dig for hidden treasures.
That is the whole of the record we hold. It is enough to place him on this map and not nearly enough to find the building. Bookscouts were the trade's undergrowth — men who worked the thrift stores and the estate sales and sold up the chain to the dealers who had customers. A shop they dug in was a shop with stock nobody had sorted yet. Somewhere on Western, in 1969.
All of about ten feet long and five feet wide,
at 7402 Santa Monica Boulevard, and Nolan calls it an important establishment in its field
without a trace of irony. Thousands upon thousands of sports books and magazines were jammed into the shelves lining the thin aisle and the back room. He offers it as proof of his argument — that the Los Angeles book trade was not one market but a scatter of obsessions, each with a shop, and that a room the size of a hallway could be nationally significant if the obsession was specific enough.
Ben and Lou Weinstein came up through the general used-book business on Hollywood Boulevard and by 1975 were at 847 North La Cienega dealing almost exclusively in the old and the rare. Ben went into books straight out of high school; Riley watched him price a Dickens first edition at a thousand dollars and a set of George Washington letters at several thousand more. They are the other half of the Weinstein story — the brothers who, as Ben Reuven put it a year later, had rival bookshops crowding the Boulevard and spilling over into West Hollywood. The spill-over is this address.
Jake Zeitlin's shop was the huge red New England barn of a building
at 815 North La Cienega, and Nolan thought it perhaps the most opulent booksellers in Southern California
— polished wood, beam ceilings, glass cabinets, early scientific instruments hulking in corners,
rare manuscripts in closed cases, and a small gallery upstairs that a woman would unlock and then sit and watch you. He landed on the right word twice: a museum, a shrine. A library, at least.
The woman who let him into the gallery corrected him. "It's better than a library. We buy libraries." Riley confirmed the address in 1975.
At 763 North La Cienega, a few doors from Zeitlin & Ver Brugge at 815 and Heritage at 847 — three rare-book dealers inside a hundred yards, on a street Nolan described as the restaurant row of art galleries.
Riley calls her shop impressive and fun to browse through and gives no more. The cluster is the finding. By 1975 the serious end of the Los Angeles book trade had physically left Hollywood Boulevard and reassembled itself on La Cienega beside the galleries, while the general and used shops held the Boulevard until the rents came for them.
Rare books at 8214 Melrose, which Riley found impressive and fun to browse through
— paired in the same sentence with Peggy Christian's shop on North La Cienega. The two of them mark the western edge of the trade, out past the Boulevard and into the neighbourhood of the galleries, where the rare-book business had been drifting since Zeitlin set up his barn. Riley's closing list is a map in itself: downtown, Westwood, Hollywood, Melrose, La Cienega. The shops had followed the money west and the bookscouts had followed the shops.
Bob Colman, one of the owners, gave Bazrod the clearest statement of how the market actually worked in 1977: First, the stars make the price. Second, the film title; third, the art work and fourth, the age. The age used to rank third, but now the art work is more important.
That reordering is the whole history of the trade in one sentence — the moment collectors stopped buying relics and started buying pictures. ⚠ Bazrod names La Cienega Boulevard and no number; the pin is the street, not the door.
The oldest bookshop in the area, opened by the father of Glen and Muir Dawson and still theirs in 1975, at 535 North Larchmont. Western history, mountaineering, Oriental art, typography — and a publishing list that ran to local arcana, including a volume on the manhole covers of Los Angeles. Glen Dawson on the range of the trade: "We'll sell a 50¢ book or a $500 book." He also reported something that would have surprised his father: rare books obtainable in America had become generally cheaper than rare books in Europe, a reversal, and his own largest purchases were now coming from England and Germany.
The only used bookstore in Westwood Village in 1975, at 970 Gayley, in a yellow building that had been a pinball place and then a car rental garage. Ron Howard ran it and let browsers stay all night, seven days a week, reading in the carpeted aisles. Nickel and dime trade-ins, outside stalls expanding into an awning-covered lot next door. Riley admired the ambition and named the one thing missing: a wise and experienced background in books and bookselling.
The stock, he wrote, left quite a bit to be desired. It is the only entry in his survey he damns.
One of the late-night outdoor newsstands that Westwood Village kept going long after the studios stopped underwriting anyone's reading habits. ⚠ Supplied by Richard Schave; it appears in none of the five Los Angeles Times articles behind this map, and no street number came with it — the pin sits at Westwood Boulevard and Kinross, where he places the old stand. All of them are gone now. A newsstand is the bottom rung of the trade and the first to go: no stock worth inventorying, no lease worth defending, and nothing left behind to landmark.
The second of the Village newsstands Richard Schave names, and the one for which we have no location at all beyond Westwood Village itself. ⚠ Supplied by him; not in any of the five articles. ⛔ It may be the same stand as the Village Center News Stand under a different name, or a different business entirely — nothing we hold settles it, and the two pins sit a block apart only because they have to sit somewhere. Treat both as a single uncertain memory of where Westwood bought its papers after dark.
In the Century City shopping centre at 10250 Santa Monica Boulevard, and the entry that shows where the trade was heading. Gifts and graphics with the emphasis on film and theatre; current posters, forties posters at about thirty dollars, and original thirties film posters at six or seven hundred — some, like the Katherine Hepburn pictures, original dated lithographs. You could have the purchase framed in the gallery. By 1977 a Hollywood poster was no longer a piece of studio ephemera that a bookseller happened to keep. It was art, sold in a mall, and framed on the premises.
Science fiction, at 1371 Westwood Boulevard, and the only genre store Riley singles out by category rather than by stock. The name is a pun and the date is 1975, which places it in the middle of the paperback boom that made science fiction a shelf of its own in every store in the country and a whole store in a few. Riley gives it eight words. The brevity is the point: by the mid-seventies the Los Angeles book trade had broken into specialisms so completely that a survey could name a shop by its subject and expect the reader to understand.
Doug Dutton's shop filled the Barry Building on San Vicente, a low modernist courtyard block where the stores opened onto an open-air patio rather than the street — so browsing the aisles meant walking outside, in Brentwood, past other people doing the same. It was the last of the family's Los Angeles stores and it closed in 2008, and the building itself then became a preservation fight of its own. ⚠ Supplied by Richard Schave, not by the 1968–1976 articles that produced the rest of this map; the building's architect and date should be checked before either is printed.
Downtown at 605 South Grand, strong in Americana, military and rare books. Riley gives it a single clause in a closing paragraph that reads like a man emptying his pockets — there are scores of other used bookstores in this naked city
— and then lists the ones he could not bear to leave out. Caravan is one of those. It is the kind of entry that tells you the survey was never going to be complete, and that the writer knew it, and that he was picking the shops he would want a stranger to walk into first.
Steve Elstein kept three hundred thousand old magazines downtown at 317 West 6th Street, and by 1971 the studios were buying from him heavily — for research, and as props in period pictures. Riley found a fine large stock of everything, strong on metaphysics,
and noted that only a few Los Angeles shops bothered to keep back numbers at all. The magazine trade was dead weight on the shelf for years and then suddenly the only copy anyone could find. When a film needed 1938 on a coffee table, this is where 1938 came from.
Ida and Wilbur Needham ran it first, and Wilbur had been a literary critic for the Los Angeles Times — his opinion of The Grapes of Wrath is printed on the jacket of the first edition. In 1968 they sold to Eleanor and Stanley Kurman, a friendly pair from Cleveland who knew books well. Riley found sixty thousand carefully chosen volumes at 2317 Westwood Boulevard and a search service that was a fifth of the business: six hundred and fifty telephone orders a month, and if they did not have it they would find it somewhere else.
The big bookshop in Westwood, which Nolan says was "at least partly patronized by the elite who go to the UCLA galleries and stand around knowingly saying, 'But it's the color, isn't it? It's the color with Matisse!'" He uses it, gently, as the counterweight to Zeitlin — culture with a capital C at both ends of the city. Robert and Blanche Campbell, both from Nebraska, opened on 10 May 1924 on North Vermont Avenue, across from the University's original campus, and followed it west in September 1929, by one account the first shop to open in Westwood Village. They sold trade books, textbooks and stationery, but the store was known for its children's department in the basement, which Blanche built and ran herself; Steven D. Sann's history of the store says she counted Roald Dahl and Ray Bradbury among the authors she knew. Robert became the first West Coast bookseller to serve as president of the American Booksellers Association. The Campbells sold the store to Brentano's on 10 May 1974, fifty years to the day after they opened it, and the Campbell's name came down in 1984. The UCLA Library finding aid for Robert's papers gives the sale as 1968; that date is wrong.
Arthur Raskin kept the corner of Westwood Boulevard and Lindbrook Drive from 1956 until August 1987, when the Times wrote him up the week he folded his racks for the last time. He was seventy, near-blind since birth, and crippled by arthritis badly enough that customers sometimes pried his fingers apart to take their change. In the boom years he sold two or three hundred papers a day; coin-operated racks and the Herald Examiner strike took that down to sixty. What kept him going at the end was the foreign press — the Financial Times, the Daily Telegraph, Le Monde, the Frankfurter Allgemeine and Farsi tabloids for Westwood's Iranian readers. I've seen a lot of changes, and not for the better.
The pin is the corner the article names.
The newsstand at 927 Broxton Avenue, between Weyburn and Le Conte and a few doors north of the Village Theatre, often called simply the Westwood International Newsstand. A correspondent supplied the name and the address to Richard Schave in September 2026, and corrected one part of his memory: they did not recall it being open all night. ⚠ The hours are unconfirmed, and no article we hold mentions the stand.
College Book Co. called itself Westwood's Most Complete Book Store,
and an advertisement from about 1973 backs up the boast: the latest releases from art to zoology, children's books, technical books, and medical, legal, business, scientific and engineering textbooks. It was in the original Bullock's Westwood building, which had been designed as a department store, and College Book Co. used it like one, with a large trade-book floor at street level, a huge textbook department in the basement and a bargain-book balcony. It also bought back used textbooks. By then Campbell's had stopped selling textbooks, so College Book Co. was the only alternative to the ASUCLA store on campus. This was its second home: it first opened on Broxton Avenue in the 1950s. Steven D. Sann supplied the history and the advertisement. When the store closed is not yet known.
Odo B. Stade's shop is the historical anchor of Nolan's article and the one store on this list that was already gone when he wrote. In the 1930s Stade built libraries for the stars, beginning with William S. Hart — which is why the piece opens on a gun-drawn painting of Hart in a gallery window on La Cienega, aiming at the hearts of the boulevard passers-by.
Nolan plants the image on the first page and pays it off on the second. ⚠ We have no address: the text breaks mid-sentence and the article continues on a page we do not hold.
Where every fact here comes from. Seven Los Angeles Times articles:
Barbara Wilkins, 21 January 1968 · Tom Nolan, “Support Your Local Bookstore,” 19 October 1969 ·
a magazine-trade piece of 28 April 1971 · John Riley, “Used Book Sellers,” 11 May 1975 ·
Ben Reuven, “Leafing Through Hollywood Blvd.,” 9 May 1976, with the Times map by Bob Allen printed
beside it · Rudy Behlmer, 8 August 1976 · “The Boys in the Back Room,” 7 November 1976 ·
Sondra Farrell Bazrod’s collectors’ directory, 15 November 1977, which is the only source here
that prints street numbers as a matter of course.
Only Nolan goes to Western Avenue. Reuven states his own boundary — Highland to Argyle,
eight-tenths of a mile — and Riley ranges from Long Beach to Westwood to downtown without ever
reaching it. Mrs. Larson and Phil Mason are on this map because of one article and one photograph
caption.
Green pins are trustworthy. Amber pins are not addresses. An amber pin means the source gave a
corner and not a number, and the dot sits on that corner. Do not treat one as a building.
Purple pins were added from outside the articles and are marked so on every entry. Where a
proprietor’s name is commonly attached to a shop but appears in none of these articles, it has been
left out rather than repeated.
The Nolan article is incomplete. Its text breaks mid-sentence on Odo B. Stade building William
S. Hart’s library; the piece runs onto a page we have not pulled. Three Westwood entries were added on 12 October 2026: Campbell's, at 10918 Le Conte Avenue, from the history of the store by Steven D. Sann, chair of the Westwood Community Council, and the UCLA Library finding aid for the Robert Campbell papers; Arthur's Newsstand, from the Los Angeles Times of 13 August 1987; and Westwood International News, from a correspondent. College Book Co., at 1002 Westwood Boulevard, was added on 13 October 2026 from Steven D. Sann's history of the store and an advertisement of about 1973.