The outdoor bins of cheap and free books along Valencia Street draw you in, but the area just past the register is the quarry: two tables tastefully festooned with pile after overstock pile of serious modern literature in sleek reprint editions. These are the books you've been meaning to read but never bothered to buy, or read and lost long ago and never thought worth replacing. At these prices, though, you start to reconsider. The lesser Vladimir Nabokovs for $5, the buzzed-about Wells Towers and Daniel Handlers and Colum McCanns for $7. Suddenly it seems stupid not to buy them, and you realize you've been the quarry all along. This is a retail trap curated with diabolical mastery, predicated on the sinister notion that people go into bookstores to purchase books. The nerve.