For those who knew Warren Farha, who passed away on May 20, the reality of his death is hard to fathom. He was, of course, as mortal as the rest of us, and his health had been poor of late even for a seventy-year-old. Yet his friends—and he made many friends—took his quiet presence as an ongoing given, his heartfelt greetings and learned counsel as reliable as the sunrise. The sensible world seems smaller and less welcoming without him.
As the founder of Eighth Day Books (EDB)—described by some patrons as “the bookstore of heaven”—his recommendations guided countless readers to hidden gems as well as books whose historical influence exceeded their current readership. He had a nose for the origins of ideas and how those ideas changed over centuries. His reading choices, which trended toward the capital-O Orthodox and small-c catholic, flowed from a monumental erudition that he wore with disarming modesty. Like his smile, his manner was shy and sincere in equal measure. He gave long, memorable hugs and used the word, “love,” in greetings and farewells with chaste fervor.
I first met Warren twenty-seven years ago at Ghost Ranch—a two-hour drive from where I now live in New Mexico—and his friendship changed my life immeasurably. We were both there for the Glen Workshop, the annual hands-on conference put on by IMAGE, the quarterly journal on arts and faith. Warren had set up his mobile bookstore in the back of the main hall. My workshop had ended a bit early, so I wandered in to look around.
Warren was sitting on a stool near the cash register/computer, reading the Pevear-Volokhonsky translation of Brothers Karamazov, not—I soon learned—for the first time. He asked me where I was from (Cincinnati) and what workshop I was taking (poetry with Jeanine Hathaway). I told him about the fascinating conversations I’d been having that week with the poet, Scott Cairns, about embodiment, contemplative prayer, and the work of writing. The first book Warren pulled from the stacks to show me was The Syriac Fathers on Prayer, a window on a spiritual tradition previously unknown to me. At week’s end, I left the conference with new insights I would need months to unpack, a heavier suitcase, and a long reading list. I knew in my heart that I’d found my people.
Over the years I bought many more books from Warren—many on his recommendation—but that doesn’t begin to describe the breadth and depth of our friendship. He was a wise and empathic conversation partner, an oasis of calm in a turbulent world. When we happened to be in the same city, I made certain to invite him out for lunch so I could have an uninterrupted hour of his time. He and Scott Cairns introduced me to the beauty of Orthodox liturgy and the Christian East’s living spiritual tradition.
As my wife can tell you, I love bookstores and go far out of my way to wander the aisles of the exceptional ones: The Strand, Powell’s, City Lights, The Tattered Cover, Shakespeare and Co., Atlantis. I feel at home in bookstores, particularly at Eighth Day Books. The few times I visited the rambling house in Wichita that is EDB, I was simultaneously excited, overwhelmed, and comforted by the rich fare on its shelves. If I remember correctly, near the store’s front window hung a photo of the esteemed Orthodox bishop, Kallistos Ware, sprawled on the floor of EDB, rummaging for just one more literary treasure. That’s how disarmingly welcoming the place is.
I know he transformed many other lives as well, and his work will continue at EDB under the capable leadership he prepared to succeed him. None of that can compensate for his absence, though. It will be hard going, but I hope to be the reader, the writer, and the man he saw in me, to honor him by critiquing bad writing and bad living through the practice of the better. In Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, the Greek philosopher describes three kinds of friends: those who enjoy each other’s company, those who work towards a shared goal (τέλος), and those who encourage the other to excel in virtue to the greatest extent possible. Warren Farha was all three. May his memory be eternal.