MOTHER FOUCAULT'S BOOKSHOP'S very existence is supposed to be impossible. It's a bookstore—a brick 'n' mortar one, no less—that opened its doors in the audacious year of 2011, long after such an endeavor had been deemed foolhardy by the post-internet universe. And yet! Owner Craig Florence not only reports that business has been getting "better and better," he has some pretty impressive proof: The shop is debuting an expansion this week that adds another 2,000 square feet, with an eclectic assemblage of poets and musicians to ring in the space at an opening celebration.

Some of Mother Foucault's success can be attributed to the authenticity of the atmosphere Florence has created, and he learned from the best. Originally from Portland, he was traveling abroad when he ran out of money in Paris. As luck would have it, he was taken in by George Whitman, owner of the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore that's a stone's throw from Notre-Dame, once haunted by the likes of Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs. Whitman gave him a job, as well the ultimate name to drop on his bookseller's résumé—were a résumé ever necessary for such a thing.

Though the store's motto is "We have no specialty," Florence began the store by selling from his own collection, and the selection is still somewhat driven by his own proclivities, though he will tell you, "What we have is a little broader than that." If anything it's a destination for literature in translation and philosophy, or as Florence, who selectively buys books from customers every day, puts it, "Did whoever wrote this book feel like they were doing something great?"

People are picking up on what Mother Foucault's is putting down, with its floor-to-ceiling salvaged-wood shelves and charming indifference to the supposed threat of the internet. "I'm told people like us on Yelp, but I haven't looked at a computer in like a year and a half," admits Florence, who "started emailing when people started doing that, and I realized it's just not worth it... it's awful. Since then things have gotten more and more out of control, and I hate it. I mean, I can't tell other people what to do—except not letting them play with their phones in my shop."

Obviously, the store has no website. (There is a Facebook page, but it is made clear that Florence has nothing to do with it.) "I have a lot more time to read," he explains. "And dusting." And yet, the business is literally, physically growing, without the benefit of online marketing and digital sales, in blatant defiance of modern wisdom and all its online slavery. Tell me you're not a little bit jealous.

With the new space comes, obviously, more room for books, but Florence is also adding a piano, a small stage, a back room for reading groups, and a room whose look, in tile and wallpaper, he compares to an Almodóvar film, and which is destined to become home to the shop's rare book collection. The store will be able to host more readings and live music, and painter Robert Tomlinson will be curating monthly art shows with First Thursday receptions. After months of cleaning out the "carpet and gross stuff" from what used to be a place where people with mental health issues collected their Social Security in tiny increments ("I think they got in trouble for embezzling from homeless people"), there's much to celebrate. Mic Crenshaw, Walt Curtis, Richard Meltzer, New Bad Things, Lisa Radon, and Larry Yes are among the formidable lineup of music and readings that will make up the party's cabal. All are welcome, but please refrain from Instagramming the experience.