This is without doubt a fairy tale.
Once upon a time in the town where I live (a town renowned for its commitment to learning since medieval times) there used to be hundreds (well, lots) of second hand bookshops. The young people who studied at the university and indeed those who simply lived in the town, could often be seen buying their books in these shops. Books used by unknown readers, whose thoughts, scribbled therein, gave an interesting glimpse into other lives. Like strangers, passing in the night, creating a transient and random connection. Thoughts, written all over the pages of say,
Madame Bovary, of other lives, other eyes and other hands, that once turned the pages. Yellowing and dog-eared pages with margins underlined, disagreed with, or highlighted as important or irritating even, to some past reader. Memories, not dissimilar to that strange elusiveness of old photographs, was present in that handwriting. The past, one might say, moved invisibly in this way, passing from generation to generation, testifying to a love of a particular book.
And then there was the physicality of the book shops themselves, of course; musty and damp with a touch of ever present Michelmas chill, alive, but subtly so, with the small, intense hum and shuffle of its readers.
Occasionally the bookseller would be heard muttering to himself as he added up a pile of books, subtracting a few copies (if the whole proved too expensive), offering kindly to 'keep them aside sir for a week?'
And then the till would be opened or the telephone ring or the door open and shut with a small sound as the cold air entered this dark Dickensian paradise.
I was brought up on shops like these which allowed me that marvelous thing called The Accidental Find. I loved the presence of a Philip Larkin humour within them, the wealth of old, out-of-print discovery that nearly always followed. The cheapness of it all. Reading, and book buying was something in the nature of a real adventure. One took risks for a couple of pounds, one read obscure poetry, or bought ancient guide books whose tattered maps spoke of ancient wars and obselete boundries that showed the changing nature of our world more clearly than any blood-rushing news report. The imagination was unlocked. What happened to that
tratoria that was so recommended in 1968? Where were the relatives of that family, now? What happened to the village described so effusively long ago in an outdated Bed? The answer is that like those old photographs, their secrets will not be given up.
Now, just like the world of Philip Larkin, the shops have gone, vanished without trace, their stocks sold, their sale sign taken down, their mysteriously seductive window displays no more. Overnight. To be replaced by souviner shops selling teddy bears and mugs and cliched sweat shirts. Progress? Or the city council, with their usual lack of imagination putting up the rent?
And so, the face of this beautiful city is changing, growing brasher by the minute as the colleges retreat further and further into their private selves, indifferent to this kind of concept of 'change.'
But still, since this
is a fairy tale (the last in the city, I think, and therefore in need of your TLC), there is one place left that has thus far escaped the rise and rise of council rates.
It is a small shop, opened first in 1946 by two brother, John and Brian Clutterbuck, who sold new paperbacks to young students. Years later, Mike and Andrea, sweethearts, meeting at the tearoom next door, saw a notice.
Oxford Bookshop. Owner retiring-looking for specialist bookseller.
It was the summer of 1975, Mike who worked in the theatre was between jobs. With hardly a moment's hesitation he found his vocation.
See, I told you it was a fairy tale!
Today the shop is still there, larger that it was originally, but snug, and, instead of selling new books it offers used paperbacks, often beautiful old Penguins from the the 1930s and 40s, their brilliantly distinctive, sweet shop covers made more seductive by careful, lovely packaging.
What a rare pleasure it is to purchase, yes
purchase is the correct, old-fashioned word, a book from Mike and his beloved Andrea.
What pleasure it is,
not to be presented with the high street tactics, the tedious little cards pinned onto shelves under the guise of 'Staff Choice'. Choices that offer up adjectival comments but little critical awareness, while leaving no room for the shopper's discovery.
In
this shop, your intelligence is not abused and instead you are confronted by Mike's thoughtful array of 'books of the day' (the display changes daily). There is no comment. Like a modern day Shaman his wares are laid silently out, leaving you, the passer by, wondering what the significence of today's selection might possibly be. You are offered up a puzzle, a possible narrative, or simply a random choice … really it's up to you to decide.
Often when I am stuck on some part of my own writing, needing an idea, or simply some fresh air, I find myself wandering towards the narrow street, my footsteps leading to this magical bookshop. And as I pass the little metal shelf outside, a throwback from the shop's earliest days, there sometimes appears mysteriously, a book I have been searching for. Or if not that, then, one that somehow has some relevence to the work in which I am currently engaged. This has happened too many times to be mere coincendence, I think, as I step inside the shop.
Go there, yourself, see if I'm right. You have A Summer To Decide!
