A Novel Bookstore by Laurence Cossé
My rating: 4/5 cats
this is a novel that is ideal for those of us who can lose ourselves for hours in a bookstore. any bookstore; whether it be a giant chain box store, or a dusty used-bookstore. this is a book for people for whom coming across a book that is just perfect for your mood or place in your life can be the highlight of your week.
this is a book for me.
imagine coming across a bookstore that only carried “good books.” now, this assessment is of course fraught with problems, “what makes a good book??”, and all the accusations of elitism and highbrow glad-handery that goes with it. can only “difficult” books be good? or does it have more to do with the emotions that are evoked upon reading a “good” book and less about any intellectual travail that goes into the reading of it?
the bookstore in this novel toes the line, and most of the books mentioned are obscure, out of print titles (in this country, anyway) that are, yes, a little bit on the show-offy side. but there is much debate in this book about the selection process that went into choosing the books for the store’s stock, and the choices have little to do with awards or canon or what “should” be read. rather, the books are selected for readerly appeal.
i am of two minds here. on the one hand, i agree with the sentiment that,
For as long as literature has existed, suffering, joy, horror, grace, and everything that is great in humankind has produced great novels. These exceptional books are often not very well-known, and are in constant danger of being forgotten, and in today’s world, where the number of books being published is considerable, the power of marketing and the cynicism of business have joined forces to keep those extraordinary books indistinguishable from millions of insignificant, not to say pointless books.
But those masterful novels are life-giving. They enchant us. They help us to live. They teach us. It has become necessary to come to their defense and promote them relentlessly, because it is an illusion to think that they have the power to radiate all by themselves. That alone is our ambition…We want books that cost their authors a great deal, books where you can feel the years of work, the backache, the writer’s block, the author’s panic at the thought that he might be lost: his discouragement, his courage, his anguish, his stubbornness, the risk of failure that he has taken.
but at the same time, i also concur that,
Culture contains everything. There would be no peaks without valleys, gentle slopes, and meadows, at lower altitudes. The genius of democracy is a love for everything, to offer everything, value everything, and let individual freedom express its preferences here as elsewhere…and the key word, where culture and art are concerned, is pleasure!
because naturally, i appreciate the books that move me as a reader. i appreciate the craft that goes into writing, and when i read a book that articulates things that i feel only as a howl within myself, the impact is intense. but i also love the thrill of reading some silly monster erotica that doesn’t answer life’s great questions or keep me up nights pondering my place in the broad spectrum of humanity.
so were i in charge of running this bookstore, i would be torn. if readers’ advisory courses have taught me anything, it is that there are no such thing as “good” books. only the great democracy of an individual reader’s needs at that moment. and the same reader who has felt the power of proust’s dissection of the human romantic experience can also be equally delighted reading about some kids on the run from zombies. i know, because that’s me.
i run the fiction department of one of those giant chain bookstores. i have run it with an iron fist for years and years now. and i am damn good at it. and reading about these booksellers, trying to provide books that are powerful and evocative and important (ahhh, there’s another tricky word), i feel a glow of solidarity. because that is something in which i firmly believe. i treat my department like an extension of myself, like an archive of every small press’ warehouse, with as many books in translation as i can conceivably get in. and i display them lovingly, letting the james pattersons sell themselves, while i curate unexpected displays and tables of more out-of-the-way books that are less-known, less promoted, that can be stumbled upon and met with surprised cries of glee. and they aren’t all difficult. some are just fun.
when we have the summer reading table up,which is mostly classics, one of the more annoying things that customers do and think they are, like, the only ones who have ever done this, is to impress their friends and point to all the books on the table: “read that. read that. read that.” and then they get to one of “my” tables, and i constantly overhear people saying, “i’ve never even heard of any of these books.” and that’s what i want. the unexpected. so i completely appreciate the goal of the characters in this book – to create something unusual – a bookstore for readers, unswayed by the full-page ads in the newspapers or the “book of the moment.” my ideal reader wants the unheard-of book, the serendipitous find. and how wonderful to have a store full of customers who are there for the books, not for the free a/c and the magazine stacks that they spill coffee all over while they wait for their movie to start down the street:
There were people until evening, people of all sorts, men and women of every age, with something in common that it took Ivan all day to identify, in fact. Something which explained why they remained calm, even when they had to step back to let their fellows pass them in the aisles, or wait to have their turn at a chosen shelf, or stand in line at the cash register: their relationship with their purchase had very little that was pecuniary about it, because their expense was not an expense and seemed deceptively like a reward, like at those good-cause flea markets where you didn’t go to spend as little as possible but, on the contrary, to rid yourself of the heaviest part of yourself in the hopes of obtaining pure joy.
i love this.
so this book is a mystery and a love story, but its beating heart is its discussions of literature, and its attempt to find the seam where enjoyability meets import.
it is a great read. and i do recommend it to anyone with a vested interest in promoting those “secret gem” titles that are held dear to the heart and bought for friends or reviewed on here with a “why has no one read this book??” plea, whether it be a dense tome by some dude in a tweed jacket or some book about having sex with a snowman.
a good book is a good book, if the heart deems it such.
