There’s an episode of BBC’s Black Books where Bernard turns his dingy, dusty, attic-like second hand book shop into an ultra-modern store. There is ambient music, oversized sofas and a coffee machine that pumps out soy-mocha-chai-bambaccinos.
When his customers leave en mass because Bernard doesn’t serve lunch he panics: “We can’t give them reasons to leave! We’ll do lunch and dinner! We’ll build a pool and a gym and an Egyptian-style casino. No that’s getting carried away, but the food! If they could eat, they’d stay and buy books all day.”
He later realises he’s sold out and returns to his musty, fusty, original style that unashamedly offers one thing: books.
Sometimes I’ll walk into a book shop of the shiny chain store variety and be immediately mesmerised. After half an hour I’m carrying: an artsy magazine, a beautiful coffee table book that’s 50% off, designer stationery, a scented candle, and quite possibly, a paperback. Common sense kicks in before I get to the counter. I know I don’t need any of this stuff. I just want it because it looks pretty. And the shop is just so nice. It smells like cinnamon.
In other words, I’ve been wooed.
Then there are book stores like MacLeod’s in Vancouver. I found MacLeod’s quite by accident and my first thought, after I opened the heavy door and stood awe-struck, was: “I think … I’ve just found heaven”.
There were heaping mounds of books. Internal alleyways of books. Grottos of books. Books piled in towers and books upon books upon books.
I had to remember to breathe.
There is order to the chaos, according to the very affable staff member Joseph. He says the layout is deceptively organised, in a way that is perhaps less obvious to customers. Luckily, the staff know their stuff. Name a specific author, or title, or enquire about Nordic crime novels and chances are they can tell you on the spot if they have it in stock.
I can’t explain why this dishevelled assortment is my ideal. At a guess, it’s book loving in its purest form. No gimmicks or subliminal messages necessary. And, if I’m going to get all poetic about it, MacLeod’s bares the same physical hallmarks of a much cherished paperback. It is worn and faded and scuffed from years of too much love. Furthermore, English literature is built on centuries of history and tradition. Shops like the 50-year-old MacLeod’s respect that tradition by adhering to a style more
reminiscent of an English Tudor library, and eschewing the latest in clever marketing ploys. MacLeod’s treats books and its customers as they should be treated: honestly.
Maybe that’s it. Or maybe there are all sorts of metaphorical connections I haven’t even considered.
Then again, maybe I’m just a little bit old school.
runningwithabook 