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.