A Love Letter to Kilgore Books — and All the Little Bookstores Holding On

John, the owner of Kilgore Books, behind the front counter—surrounded by books, old shelving, and lived-in charm. A quiet presence holding the store together.

There’s something about bookstores. Real bookstores. Especially the used ones—where the floors creak, the shelves lean, and there’s always the faint smell of paper, time, and mystery.

When I first moved to Colorado, I lived over 20 miles away, but I somehow found my way to Kilgore Books on 13th Street. I can’t tell you how—it wasn’t on the way to anywhere. But it had the kind of magnetic pull only true book lovers know.

A narrow aisle inside Kilgore Books on Capital Hill, shelves packed to the brim and handmade signs pointing to everything from metaphysics to cookbooks. A cozy maze of knowledge.

John, the owner, graciously let me bring my camera in. I spent an afternoon wandering the aisles—if you can call them that—squeezing through the narrow paths between towering stacks of books, each one begging to be picked up and thumbed through. The space isn’t much bigger than a small bedroom, but it holds thousands of stories. And not just in the books.

A customer with a camera stands between tall shelves, absorbing the quiet intensity of the space. Moments like this show why places like Kilgore still matter.

You’ll find old Tonka trucks tucked on top of shelves, vintage posters, quirky hand-lettered signs, and a lamp or two that looks like it came from your grandmother’s den. There’s a section labeled “Let’s talk about sex, baby.” Another with poetry. Sci-fi. Philosophy. It’s not alphabetized to perfection, but you’ll never leave without a new discovery.

A glimpse of Kilgore’s layered character: Tonka trucks, a skull in a toy dump truck, and decades-old posters stacked alongside literature and history.

It’s the kind of place you can’t replicate online. You can’t feel that thrill—the randomness, the serendipity—by clicking “Add to Cart” while half-watching a Netflix show. You can’t meet the owner. You can’t overhear a stranger quietly recommend a book to their friend. You can’t pick up a book that was clearly read, loved, and passed on.

But here’s the part that hits harder: places like Kilgore are fighting to survive. John told me there are months where it’s a real question whether he’ll make rent. Buying new (used) books to resell isn’t always an option. Some days, it’s just about staying open one more day.

John chats with a visitor near the front window—a typical day at Kilgore, where buying a book often comes with a good conversation.

And Kilgore is not alone. Independent bookstores, record shops, repair shops, and all the quiet corners of personality-driven business are disappearing. Not because people don’t love them. But because we forget how badly they need us to walk through their doors.

Amazon can get you a book in 24 hours. But it’ll never remember your name. It won’t slip a free sticker into your bag. It won’t light up when you say you loved that obscure sci-fi author from the ’70s. And it definitely won’t let you bring your dog or strike up a conversation about Bukowski with the guy behind the counter.

A red curtain separating the back of the store from the front is just part of Kilgore’s charm.

So if you live in Denver—or even if you don’t—find your Kilgore. Visit. Browse. Buy a book. Bring a friend. Post a picture. Talk about it.

Because these places are worth more than we give them credit for. And once they’re gone, they don’t come back.

A shopper browses near the playfully labeled “Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby” section—one of many unexpected corners that make Kilgore memorable.

A cartoon of Freud with a cigar marks the psychology section, reflecting the store’s wit and DIY spirit, one bookshelf at a time.

A hand-painted Kilgore Books sign—featuring a trout and surrounded by art and pop culture—sits above shelves of comics and graphic novels.

The bookstore’s entrance door, coated in decades of stickers, flyers, and tape—a portal into a world that hasn’t changed just because everything else has.

The exterior of Kilgore Books on 13th Street in Denver. Faded signage, old brick, and a few passersby—nothing fancy, just full of soul.