Salon du Livre

The theme of the Salon du Livre de Montréal this year was: "The Book, time traveling machine."

Last week was held one of the most important events of the year for Montreal’s book industry: the Salon du Livre de Montréal. It’s a yearly book fair that joins together dozens of publishing houses, hundreds of writers, and thousands of visitors. Last Thursday, G. and I decided to take a break from essay-writing and grad school applications to go take a look at what the Salon had to offer this year. We were looking forward to a book-signing session with French writer Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt — a favorite of ours. Schmitt is a prolific writer of plays, short stories, and novels. He is most famous for a short philosophical novel, Oscar et la dame rose (Oscar and the Lady in Pink), and his masterpiece La Part de l’autre (which, as far as I can tell, has unfortunately not yet been translated into English), a work of counterfactual history that retells the story of Hitler’s life if he had been accepted into the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts (and therefore not become the Hitler we know) in parallel with the actual events of his life. 

We went over to Mr Schmitt’s stall and chose what book’s we’d buy to get signed by the author. G. chose Ulysses from Baghdad, and contemporary retelling of the Odyssey, and I went for one of Schmitt’s autobiographical works on music called Ma vie avec Mozart (My life with Mozart), which comes with its own CD! I was immediately won over by its lyric opening:

He is the one who started our correspondence.

One day, during my fifteenth year, he sent me a music. It modified my life. Better: it kept me alive. Without it, I would be dead. 

Ever since, I write him often, little notes scribbled on a table corner during the elaboration of a book, or long missives composed at night while a sky without stars hangs above the orange-hued city. 

When he feels like it, he answers, during a concert, in an airport lounge, at a street corner, always surprising, always dazzling. 

Books signed, we spent the rest of our time at the Salon going around the different publishers’ stalls, trying to resist the temptation of so many great titles, and happy to see that a lot of people are still into books and reading! The section for young readers, in particular, is absolutely enormous — proof of the amazing diversity of books now offered to the YA readership. At Leméac (one of my favorite French publishers), G. helped me find a rare copy of Jacques Poulin’s first novel Mon cheval pour un royaume (My Horse for a Kingdom) and Conversations avec un ami (Conversations With a Friend), a series of interviews with the master bibliophile Alberto Manguel. While we were waiting to pay for our books, G. and I turned around and realized we were standing a few feet away from Michel Tremblay, Québec’s most celebrated playwright. We mustered our courage and went over for a little congratulatory chat. He turned out to be extremely friendly. I mentioned to him that I’d seen an excellent production of his play Albertine en cinq temps (Albertine in Five Times) played in English at McGill’s TNC theatre a few weeks ago and he even expressed his dissapointment at not having been invited to see it! G. also mentioned to him that we’d been surprised to find a copy of one of his books in a bookshop in Dublin last Spring. 

Surprise! A copy of one of Michel Tremblay's books we found in a Dublin bookstore last Spring.

We left the Salon joyful and relaxed and went to discuss books and authors we loved over dessert and a glass of porto in a nearby restaurant. A well deserved evening of fun in the cold November darkness. 

One Book, Three Boats

As you may have guessed by now, I love to compare covers of the same book that appear in different places, or else over the course of different editions. Sometimes these comparisons can be very funny because of the wide disparity between covers for the same book — so much so that at times you wonder if the covers belong to the same book at all. The publication of Michael Ondaatje’s new novel The Cat’s Table at the end of the summer has given me am opportunity to compare and contrast the book’s covers in the UK, the US, and Canada. This particular book caught my attention for a comparative study because, unlike what is sometimes seen, all three covers feature the same elements — namely a large boat at sea — but interpret the subject in slightly different ways. 

I’ll start with the US edition, published by Knopf, whose cover caps this post. The image used on the cover, in shades of coal-grey and black, has a nostalgic quality to it. It looks like a grainy, poorly developed black and white photograph. The dreamy effect is hightened by the tight framing of the image on the very front of the boat. I quite like it, although if anything maybe the white border at the top and bottom where the text appears makes it a little bit too serious. 

The Canadian edition, published by McClelland and Steward, has a similarly quirkiness to it, created by the slanting of the photo of the boat. The picture is also taken from a much greater distance, and the entirety of the boat and a swath of grey sea is revealed. A sense of age and nostalgia is signified by the sepia tint, the washed out clouds, and the classic border. The effect of the entire composition is much more conservative and toned down (and even, dare I say, boring) than the US cover, despite the bolder font and use of some color. 

As for the British cover, published by Jonathan Cape, the subject is, again, a boat, but it is treated much more boldly by a cartoonish image — it could be right out of a Tintin album — in tones of white, black, and yellow against a dark sky. The main boat is also flanked by two tug boats, rendered in darker shades, one of which stands at the forefront of the image. Like in the US cover the boat is facing and sailing towards the viewer, which makes the illustration much less static. Moreover the energetic imagery and block-lettered, shadowed font used for the title makes this cover eye-catching and interesting to look at. Both the subject and the aesthetics remind me of the cover for Tagore’s Nationalism, published in the trove of beautiful book covers that is the Penguin Great Ideas series. 

I haven’t read The Cat’s Table so I can’t say if the cover respects the content of the novel (although it looks promising since I know the action takes place on a boat), but I wonder how efficient these covers as stand-alone works of commercial art? I would argue that I find the UK cover more interesting than the others, but do you think there is one that works better than the others aesthetically, or from a marketing standpoint? I’d love to know your thoughts…

Atwood Covers Here and Elsewhere

This is the North American cover for Margaret Atwood's book on science-fiction, out in October. I'm not entirely sure what to think about this one; the angle in the writing at the top makes me a little dizzy.

When a writer has been productive over a large number of years and has reached a certain level of prominence, you’d think this author’s publishers would take the opportunity to create elegant, consistent designs in order to make the books stand out as a group. In the case of Margaret Atwood, the famous Canadian poet, novelist, inventor, and ecological activist, this opportunity was certainly there, although what her Canadian, American, and British publishers did with the designs of her books has not necessarily given the most fortunate results. 

Same book, different cover. The British cover design for In Other Worlds uses the same elements as the North American cover, but has fit them into the rest of their Atwood collection.

For one, Atwood’s Canadian publisher, McClelland, used to have horrendous covers for her novels, featuring sepia-toned, blurry images of naked women and odd collages. All the covers had the same, plain black border. I’ve put some bellow. Most, as you see, are not particularly attractive, some are interesting, others are plain ugly. 

More recently, McCelland have released new paperback Atwoods, with generally nicer monochrome images and more modern (although a tad redundant) font work. Although some of these new covers remain a little bit unremarkable, they’re all a great improvement on the old ones, and some of them are quite good. I especially like when the photographs have been tampered a bit to look old or grainy. The covers I prefer in this collection are Alias Grace and The Handmaid’s Tale.

As an aside, the image used on the cover of The Blind Assassin is the same one Penguin used on the cover of their Red Classics edition of The Great Gatsby.

For Atwood’s American and UK covers, see the next post!

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! 

A Literary Snob

Adrienne Clarkson, posing in business class with Keith Richards memoirs.

The Canadian newspaper The Globe and Mail has been running a series on their books website called “My Books, My Place”, in which Canadian personalities whom we care more or less about are pictured in the places where they most like to read, and write a short piece on why they like to read there and what they’re currently reading. It’s all very quaint and Canadian and doesn’t often rise above the mildly interesting. It was, perhaps, inspired by that fascinating series of articles The Guardian did some time ago called “Writer’s Rooms”, which had beautiful, large pictures (without anyone in them) of the places where author’s write accompanied by insightful texts about their writing habits.

Some weeks ago, the series featured Adrienne Clarkson’s books and place, entitled her “higher literary pursuits”. Adrienne Clarkson is a former Governor General of Canada — an old title, which for some reason still exists, connected to the British monarchy (because, yes, Canada is still ruled by the Queen of England). Governor Generals aren’t all bad, however, and they’ve become important patrons of arts and culture in Canada. Furthermore, Adrienne Clarkson isn’t without literary connections: she wrote two volumes of memoirs, as well as a biography of Norman Bethune as part of Penguin’s Extraordinary Canadians series and her husband is writer John Ralston Saul, who is currently president of International PEN.

The Biography of Norman Bethune by Adrienne Clarkson. I actually heard it wasnt bad.

As it turns out, Adrienne Clarkson likes to read in “the womb-like pod in Air Canada’s business class on long-distance flights” where she feels “enclosed in a private world: The lighting can be directed over the book as well as overhead. There are no telephones, no e-mails.” Well, all I can say is, although I always bring loads of books when I take the plane because I look forward to several hours without the normal disruptions of everyday life, I usually don’t end up getting much reading done. In the seats which most of us can afford, there’s always a baby crying nearby, a child behind you is constantly propped up against your headrest and looking down at you, people are constantly shuffling about and knocking your feet out of the aisle, my eyes get too dry to read after 10 pages, and the overhead lights (which you can’t read without when the cabin lights are turned off) have the power and precision of candle flame. I’m glad to know all of that won’t be a problem when I can afford a personal pod (where I would most probably be playing Wii, anyway, or whatever other amazing gadgets they have in there, instead of reading). Meanwhile, I’d rather not know about it.

But wait, there’s more. Mrs Clarkson’s illustration of her favorite reading ritual as follows: “Reading in this atmosphere with people padding through whom you don’t know and who don’t generally want to disturb your peace and quiet when they see you plunged into the essays of Michel de Montaigne in French. This is not generally a conversation starter. But if it happens to be, that person will be extremely interesting and I will want to talk to them.” It seems to me quite an understatement to admit that reading Montaigne in French is not generally a conversation starter. And I suppose one of those first class pods is the perfect place to do it, especially if you don’t want to be bothered by plebeians begging for a chat, or, god forbid, an autograph!

The Brothers Karamazov — SnobLit?

Now, I know I sound rather caustic, but you must admit that in this piece Mrs Clarkson appears as the epitome of literary snobbism. And I know it’s not just me because nearly all the comments on her piece say something along those lines. Now, the only problem is that I’m in a peculiar position to accuse someone of that since I’ve been called a literary snob myself. And indeed, I think I am one. I often do some literary name dropping in conversation, I sometimes read “classics” just because I want to be able to say I’ve read them afterward (The Brother’s Karamazov, Ulysses), I read mostly literary fiction from established authors, I deny to having ever read Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code (even if I have, and Angels and Demons too), and I have an open prejudice (which I’m trying to overcome, but still) against genre fiction like mystery or fantasy. I laughed heartily at Mrs Clarkson’s as she “plunged into the essays of Michel de Montaigne in French”, but then I mentioned Montaigne in my first blog post (I even put an image of him to look more serious!) and I can read French, too. So what’s the difference? Well, do I think people are less interesting because they won’t approach me if I’m reading Montaigne in French (which I never have, by the way)? Well, no, I don’t. I also try to keep in mind that even people who don’t read what I consider to be literature — or even people who don’t read at all — can also have something interesting to say. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, but I’m trying. Would I say my favourite place to read is in the business class on a long-distance flight? No, because I’d rather be reading in a dusty old armchair with a nice cup of tea and lots of light. 

So in the end, while both Mrs Clarkson and I are literary snobs, I think she might actually just be a snob, period. “Disturb me if you dare!” she adds at the end of her piece. Don’t worry Mrs Clarkson, I don’t want to.