Shakespeare and Company and Films

Mourir auprès de toi is a short stop animation film by Spike Jonze, featuring the felt book cover characters created by Olympia Le Tan.

First of all I have to excuse myself for not posting anything on the blog in the last couple of months. My life has become a little less hectic now so I should be able to write here more often. For the time being, I want to share a short film I found via the The New Yorker‘s Book Bench. The film is related to the blog in more than one way. Directed by Spike Jonze, it was created in collaboration with Olympia Le-Tan, who made the book-clutches I mentioned a few months back. The film, called Mourir auprès de toi (To Die By Your Side) is also set in the famous Shakespeare and Company bookshop, in Paris, which I’ve also blogged about. It features Le-Tan’s stitched book covers coming to life at night after the bookshop has closed, and an unlikely love story between the characters on two of the covers… Watch it here! 

P.S. A few weeks ago, G. came across this perfume ad for Lancôme’s impossibly named Trésor Midnight Rose, featuring Emma Watson (aka Hermione Granger). The entire video is awful, by the way, but we’re pretty sure the bookshop at the beginning, where Watson meets her beau, buys a copy of a fictitious book called Midnight Rose, and loses her hat, is also Shakespeare and Company. 

Book Shopping in London

Useless to say, there are LOTS of bookshops in London

G. left for Greece last weekend and I accompanied her to London, from where she was flying off, and decided to spend a few days enjoying the city for what would be the last time in a while. I had lots of fun looking at beautiful art in London’s numerous free museums, visiting the Science Fiction exhibition at the British Library, lunching on bread and creamy cheddar (as only the English can make it) in leafy squares, going to see a play or two, and reading in quiet, cavernous pubs (the British Isles, of course, is the only place in the entire world in which you can read in a bar without looking ridiculous). For a purchaser of books as incorrigible and compulsive as myself, London also offers pleasures (or dangers) numerous and varied; therefore, this was my last opportunity to get some good book shopping in before I leave England for good. It was about time I paid a visit to some of London’s most renowned bookshops. Here they are, in no particular order:

 

HATCHARDS:

I came to Hatchards with high expectations. After all, this respectable institution is the oldest bookshop in London (founded in 1797), and holds no less than three royal warrants. People like Oscar Wilde and Lord Byron have shopped there. Both the interior and exterior are superb, all dark wood, and the thing that immediately struck me upon entering is the amount of signed copies of recent, important titles they have. It’s obvious that many very big authors come to sign books here. Other than that, I was quickly disappointed. Although they have a decently large poetry section (not all that surprising in the UK, however), their selection of fiction titles was obvious, and, to be frank, of average quality, while I spotted a conspicuously large quantity of celebrity memoirs in their biographies. I found Hatchards offered the experience of a bookstore more than a bookshop: an emphasis on quantities of books as merchandise, rather than on books as beautiful, interesting, and highly individual products. This may not be entirely surprising, since Hatchards is owned by the same people as Waterstones. It may be good enough for the Queen, but unfortunately, I expected a little bit more, especially from a place that announces so much.

 

LONDON REVIEW BOOKSHOP:

This was my second visit to the bookshop associated with the London Review of Books. It’s a clean and bright place, on two floors, just a stone’s throw from the British Museum. What makes the shop really special is its amazing, and very intelligent selection of titles; tables and shelves are overflowing with interesting and unexpected books. They won’t have many copies of one title, but they make up for it by having a multitude of titles, so if you’re looking for many books by one author (which is what happened to me when I fell upon Tim Parks’ most recent novel and wanted to see what else he’d written) you’ll be pleased, and also left with difficult choices. NYRB books and other curiosities abound in the fiction section, but the non-fiction shelves are equally well stocked in books that are varied, fascinating, and obscure (and they have a really good Ancient Classics section downstairs, which always pleases the classicist girlfriend). I also recommend visiting the London Review Cake Shop, next door; it’s busy and a little noisy, but they’ve got a great selection of teas and rich, decadent cakes. 

 

DAUNT BOOKS

The large booksellers chain Waterstones is in big trouble in the UK, and it was sold by HMV to Russian businessman Alexander Mamut just a few weeks ago. People have generally found this to be a good thing, injecting a new direction for the store and its 300 branches. The man Mamut placed at the head of Waterstones to redress the company is James Daunt, founder of Daunt Books (there’s a great interview with this humble, clearly brilliant man here). I visited the Marylebone shop (the first shop Daunt opened, there are now several other branches), which is beautifully adorned with skylights and long, wood-paneled rooms. I was initially confused by what all the fuss was about, because although the books were well displayed, there was nothing really interesting about the titles themselves. Then I reached the gallery at the back and understood; in this section of the store, on three floors, the books are organized by geographical region. It’s brilliant. At the top of each region’s bay (they are all represented, as far as I could see, from the polar regions to the Balkans) you’ll find travel guides and language books at the top, and then as you move down the shelves there will be history and political science books relating to the region, and finally novels that either take place or were written by an author who comes from there. This requires impressive product knowledge by the staff — for instance, there was one copy of Jonathan Littell’s The Kindly Ones in Germany, and another one in France. I found it was a superb way to explore books, by focusing on a place or destination, and broadening out to all kinds of written works related to it — talk about traveling from your armchair. The only negative point I have about Daunt books is that their Canadian bookcase, downstairs, is poorly represented by non-travel books. All I found were two or three novels that looked really boring and some history books. No Cockroach, by Rawi Hage, or Mordecai Richlers, which portray Montreal so vividly. No Alice Munro. Not even a Margaret Atwood. For shame! 

 

PERSEPHONE BOOKS:

Persephone books is a really great London based publishing house specializing in rediscovering neglected 20th century writers, mostly women. An added plus is that the books they make are extremely elegant: perfect format, simple typeface on quality paper, dove-grey covers, and beautiful end-papers and matching bookmarks which use fabric patterns that relate to the stories (for instance, the endpaper from one of the books I bought is taken from a furnishing fabric the author bought for her flat in the 1970s). The whole thing — beautiful designs, small publishing house, high quality standards, rejuvenating lost books — almost sounds to good to be true. But it’s true, it’s true. Now, their small locale in Lamb’s Conduit isn’t exactly a bookshop, because they only sell their own titles, but one can spend a good deal of time perusing through the 93 items on their catalogue and choosing (no without some difficulty) which ones to take away. I picked up a gift for G. and a collection of short stories by Diana Athill (whose memoirs I’ve praised so much in the past), which was how Athill first started out as a writer. 

 

TATE MODERN SHOP:

The Tate Modern is a fabulous museum for he or she who appreciates modern art (although I am not that person, I still had an agreeable hour there), and the shop downstairs has everything from prints to designer mugs. Come for their selection of books on art, art criticism, and design, which is stunning. Hours of pleasure looking at pretty, glossy pictures. Unfortunately, there’s no place to sit. 

 

I realize there are a myriad of excellent bookshops in London, but sadly I only had three days. Hopefully I will discover many more when I come again. The problem I have to face now is that a book buying spree probably wasn’t the best idea at the end of a year spent living abroad; I have to bring all these books with me back to Montreal… I’m ready to sacrifice some clothing, if that’s what it takes to make enough room in my luggage! 

My Favourite Bookstore

Mr B's Emporium of Reading Delights, in Bath. Everything an independent bookshop should be.

There’s a fun irony in the way I discovered Mr. B’s Emporium of reading delights: half by chance and half by plan. I knew about it before coming to England, having come across an article about it in The Guardian’s Best Bookshops feature last year. The founder, Nic Bottomley, wrote a blog on The Guardian’s website called Diary of an independent bookshop, from 2006 to 2008. But the truth is, I’d completely forgotten about it by the time I fell upon the store by chance last December, huddled as it is in one of Bath’s back alleys. I was doing some Christmas shopping in Bath with G. and, seeing a bookshop sign, we stopped (we always stop when we see a bookshop) and peered inside. The quirky name and purple logo seemed familiar, but it took me a few minutes to click. I became very excited when I did. G. and I went in and spent a delightful hour or so browsing its shelves.

At first, Mr B’s looks and feels like any other independent bookshop: cream-coloured shelves stacked with great titles (lots of novels, lots of art books upstairs, interesting non-fiction, no commercial sludge), the staff is friendly but quiet, the space is small and charming, the bestseller wall features lots of staff picks and a more than decent number of translations. But as you spend more time in the shop, you get the feeling that this is an altogether different kind of bookshop. For instance, there’s a bath, downstairs, (perhaps a reference to the city’s name?) which serves as a fixture to show off new and interesting titles. The wallpaper in the staircase is pages cut out of a Tintin album. Upstairs, there’s a jug of water, mugs, and nice armchairs, which invited you to read and relax — it’s called the bibliotherapy room. Tucked in a corner, a small door leads into a tiny wardrobe called the reading booth, where you can go isolate yourself from the world and treat yourself to some special time with a good book.

It doesn’t stop there. All the staff at Mr B’s are also genuine book lovers, on a mission to get you reading something engaging and different. Ask them about any of the books they have; chances are, they’ll have read it — if not, they’ll have something interesting to say about it. There’s a book you’re looking for? If they don’t have it, they’ll gladly recommend something else that may suit your taste. Plus, they know how to maximize their knowledge: you can buy something called A Year of Reading Delights (something G. gave me for my birthday), meaning a consultation period with one of Mr B’s bibliotherapists, who then hand picks and sends a book to you every month for a year. The books are sent beautifully gift-wrapped in brown paper, string, and an elegant wax seal. They also sell a Reading Spa Treatment, which entails coffee and cake, a long chat with with Mr B too discuss your taste and what’s new and good in the world of books, reserved time in the reading booth, £40 worth of books, and a bag of goodies.

Yes, there’s more (these guys are the best, I tell you). Mr B’s hosts great books events with renowned authors, they have their own “bookshop band”, they manage a fun blog (Mr B’s Blog of Bloggy Delights), and they organize two weekly book groups, which are completely free, and every christmas they publish a small catalogue of wonderful, hand-picked book recommendations. Unsurprisingly, Mr B’s Emporium of Reading Delights has just been crowned Britain’s Independent Bookshop of 2011. Check out their website, and if you’re in Bath any time soon, remember to stop by. You won’t regret it!

This is one of the gift-wrapped books Mr B's sent me as part of my Year of Reading, with a personal message on a Penguin's postcard!

The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop

Enter here for groovy gifts and bargain prices. But where are the good books?

When I was a boy, I would come up to my mom once in a while and declare: “I have nothing to read!” This didn’t happen very often, since, although I was a keen reader, I didn’t devour books. So when it did happen it usually meant (lucky me!) a trip to the bookstore that weekend. Even back then, I liked books not only for the words, for the actual reading experience; I also liked books because they were beautiful objects to be collected and cherished. From a very young age I remember organizing my books, looking at them fondly on the shelves, counting them and measuring how much space they needed and how much additional space I would need to make to fit more books. A trip to the bookstore meant not only something new to read, it meant more books on the shelves, which was something I really looked forward to, and still do today. 

I used to like any and every bookstore I entered, without discrimination. As long as there were books, I was happy. Eventually I started working in a bookstore myself — a well-designed, bright new concept store — and all of that changed. Now that I understand more clearly how the business of book selling works (and more importantly now that my literary tastes have become better defined) it’s very difficult for me to appreciate a visit to a bookstore unless it’s a very very good one — and preferably a bookshop. I can no longer stand large-surface, American-style chains. I’ve grown allergic to their emphasis on quantity as opposed to quality, their focus on bestsellers and recommendations by famous people, their poor selection of literary fiction, the aggressive promotions meant to make you spend your money on books as opposed to read and enjoy them, and of course all that space reserved for non-book product like candles, cards, and cushions.

Now this is more like it. The London Review Bookshop: small, bright, and with a great selection of title to explore.

I understand, of course, why these large format stores have turned to these sales strategies: in the age of internet and e-books (and the low prices only they can offer), bookstores have had to adapt and rely on heavy sellers and non-book product to attract customers and boost their sales. Worse, I know a lot of customers want just that, to read the same things and buy pretty things. Still, it breaks my heart to see bookstores willingly move away from what their principal purpose should be: disseminate good reading. Yet, even among the store closures announced every other week, I feel that independent bookshops are starting to crop up everywhere with renewed vigor. They offer an altogether different experience: not  an appealing, trendy magazine lifestyle; but books for readers, with a much-necessary emphasis on the titles themselves, in all their variety and originality. Bookshops are there to allow customers to browse at leisure, regardless of whether they’ll find something or not. Booksellers are there to read and think and try to get people to know about (not necessarily buy) books that are really important to them. I have found very few bookshops that meet this description, but the search continues.

In order to understand the nature and role of bookshops, and their constant evolution, I recommend Lewis Buzbee’s charming The Yellow Lighted Bookshop. It’s a short, bright read — half memoir, half history — which will guide you through the evolution of bookshops from Roman stalls to American mega-stores, and the readers and booksellers that have shaped them. Buzbee — who has been writer, publisher sales rep, and book seller at different stages in his life — is not only a book lover, but also a passionate book purchaser. Anyone who likes owning books will immediately connect with his description of walking into a bookshop and looking for something — a book, although you don’t know which one yet, which will satisfy some deep urge. Ironically, The Yellow Lighted Bookshop satisfied just that urge when I bought it in Shakespeare & Company, which I wrote about last week.

"I think that I still have it in my heart someday to paint a bookshop with the front yellow and pink in the evening...like a light in the midst of the darkness." — Vincent van Vogh (That's just a quote in the book, the illustration on the cover isn't by him, obviously.)

I’d be curious to know if anyone knows of a really good bookshops? I’m soon going to write about my favourite one in England, I’d love to know about more great shops out there!

Hipsters & Company

Shakespeare & Co — a perfect bookshop if there ever was one. Or is it?

Shakespeare and Company is certainly one of the most famous bookstores in the world. It was opened in 1919 by a young American Woman, Sylvia Beach, and eventually became a prominent place for the artistically minded American expats who were hanging out in Paris in the 1920s — people like Fitzgerald and Hemingway, coined “the lost generation” by Gertrude Stein. Beach also famously publishing James Joyce’s highly polemical Ulysses, now widely acknowledged to be one of the most influential novels of the 2oth century.

The original Shakespeare & Co closed in 1941, during the German occupation. The on which one can see and visit today, a stone’s throw from Notre-Dame, opened in 1951 under the name of Le Mistral. The owner, George Whitman, eventually changed the name to honour Beach’s store. Like the original Shakespeare & Co, the new one also became a kind of refuge for a community of edgy young American writers of the period — those who would become members of the Beat generation. Even today, the store — now managed by Whitman’s daughter, Sylvia (the name loops the loop rather perfectly) — apparently houses several budding writers who are there to read and write, provided they help out in the store for a couple of hours each day. There was an excellent article about the whole business in The Guardian a few years ago.

Disappointment was probably inevitable when I visited Shakespeare and Company myself at the beginning of the year. The place is too legendary and the literary references too great; how could a bookshop possibility live up to such a magical reputation? It does, in a way: the elegant, worn facade; the atmospheric maze of tiny rooms and cramped stairs; the clutter of typewriters and posters and people staring smartly at the shelves; and the books, of course — books, books everywhere, piles of them on the floor, on the tables, mountains of them climbing up to the ceiling and arching over the door frames, like a cluttered cave of paper. The problem is the people; Shakespeare and Co has become the ultimate hipster tourist destination in Paris. Forget spending a comfortable half hour in the reading room crammed with used books (for consultation only) upstairs; the incessant come and go of ogling, carefully outfitted twenty-somethings is much too irritating.

Inside the worn, book-filled interior of Shakespeare & Co

I wanted to be charmed by the bookshop and unfortunately I came out mainly disappointed, and then frustrated by my disappointment. The only comfort, I suppose, is that I was myself part of the ogling, whispering crowd. I was as much an annoying voyeur as they were, as much of a hipster looking for a culture fix, even if I think I deserved it more than they do! I even bought the Shakespeare & Co tote… Although I didn’t stay very long in the bookshop, from what I saw they had a good selection of new books and interesting staff picks. I also came out with a copy Lewis Buzbee’s The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop, which, being about bookshops, mentions Shakespeare and Co quite a lot. It was a fitting purchase.

In the end, the time spent browsing the green stands of the bouquinistes on the banks of the Seine nearby, where I found a yellowed NRF edition of Saint Exupéry’s Terre des Hommes, turned out to be an altogether more pleasing — and parisian — experience.

The famous bouquinistes, on the banks of the Seine.