The death of serendipity

Algorithmic curation, genuine discovery, and indie bookstores

I remember growing up, turning on the TV, and flipping through cable channels (we’d call that channel surfing). I’d end up on TNT or the USA Network, catch Independence Day 10% of the way through, and I’d think to myself “sure, I’ll give this a go,” only to be enraptured by an all-time movie speech from one of our greatest fictional presidents.

That kind of serendipitous discovery of products or content doesn’t really exist today because modern technology is built to curate human existence by algorithm. 

There’s more content to watch and read and more things to buy, and in general, more stuff. To commoditize the glut of stuff, companies use machine learning algorithms and artificial intelligence to recommend things to watch, read, and buy. 

And a machine-driven recommendation is as far from serendipity as you can get. 

Every major social media platform is like TikTok, blending “recommended” content with posts from people you choose to follow. TikTok does it well; Twitter, not so much. Netflix has recommended shows that I never knew existed, then watched and loved (RIP Teenage Bounty Hunters). When I buy an air purifier on Amazon, Amazon recommends that I buy five more air purifiers, for reasons that remain unclear. Hell, odds are, if you’re reading this, algorithmic recommendation engines played a role in surfacing this content to you. 

If you think this is limited to our interactions online — “I can escape The Algorithm if I go outside” — you’d be wrong. Grocery stores maximize revenue by using AI to optimize what products go where and on what shelves. 

But there are special places in the world where the joy of earnest discovery is still real, where you can explore and find something without an AI-powered hand guiding you. 

One such place are indie bookstores, a last remaining bastion of serendipity.

Your local bookstore is not Amazon (which boasts a 65% market share of online print book sales). Barnes and Noble (one company!) has about the same market share as the thousands of independent bookstores in the U.S. combined. To wit: A single local bookstore does not have the revenue or data infrastructure to machine-curate their stores. Yeah, they put hot, new releases that are popping on BookTok on one table towards the front of the store and employees recommend their favorite novels on certain shelves. 

That’s still a far cry from the level of algorithmic curation you get from Amazon — and it’s an opportunity for discovery.

A few months ago, I went into Solid State Books in Washington, DC and I stumbled upon Seishi Yokomizo’s novel The Honjin Murders, originally published in 1946. Even as a crime/spy novel enthusiast — I have three copies of James Crumley’s The Last Good Kiss, including a first edition and a signed copy, and I recommend literally anything by Elmore Leonard and John le Carré — I definitely would not have sought out a Japanese crime novel written just after World War II. 

But the cover caught my eye. 

I read the synopsis.

“In the winter of 1937, the village of Okamura is abuzz with excitement over the forthcoming Ichiyanagi wedding . . . Then, on the night of the wedding, the Ichiyanagi household are awoken by a terrible scream, followed by eerie music. Death has come to Okamura, leaving no trace but a bloody samurai sword, thrust into the pristine snow outside the house. Soon, amateur detective Kosuke Kindaichi is on the scene to investigate what will become a legendary murder case.”

I was in, and immediately bought it (little did I know the Kosuke Kindaichi series consists of a whopping 77 books, which, as a militant completionist, was a shock). I remember reading the novel on vacation with my now-fiancé, outside of a bed and breakfast on the western tip of Maryland, overlooking a lake. We were in the mountains; the air was cool. I remember the garden swing we sat on while we read. I remember feeling content. I remember feeling loved. 

When I see the cover of The Honjin Murders on my bookshelf, I still feel those things (odd to feel such warmth from a murder mystery, I know, but we all have our quirks). Truthfully though, the experience of finding The Honjin Murders was as close to organic serendipity as I could get, and the memories I have of discovering and reading the novel are special. 

Algorithmic curation is a staple of modernity, one that cannot (and should not) be completely avoided. But sometimes, we need a respite. We need to accidentally discover; we need to stumble upon something by pure happenstance that changes us. The Honjin Murders did that for me. Maybe a local bookstore in your neighborhood can do that for you, too.